


Red Tape

by geekdom_is_wisdom



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enjolras-centric, Family Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sex, Interrogation, Kidnapping, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-04-23 15:31:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4882135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekdom_is_wisdom/pseuds/geekdom_is_wisdom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ABC Society has been in financial ruin for months, and social justice doesn't fund itself. When Enjolras discovers the group is fast becoming bankrupt, he is forced to choose between his inheritance and his life as he knows it. Between him and two million euros stands an abusive and corrupt father, an ethically dubious burglary, crucifixion via media, kidnapping and an incensed Montparnasse. To save the ABC, Enjolras must expose every lie and secret he has kept hidden for five years, drawing himself, Grantaire and his friends into the line of fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Grantaire was happily half-curled around Enjolras, their fingers interlocked and legs a confusing tangle, when a sharp knock at the door made him groan melodramatically.

“I didn’t know we were expecting guests.” he stated accusingly, glaring at Enjolras.

“We’re not, really. I mean, we are expecting them, but Courf and ‘Ferre are hardly guests.” Enjolras reasoned. “They practically live here.”

“Trust me, I know.” Grantaire grumbled as he untangled himself from Enjolras and staggered towards the door, unlatching it clumsily. “What can you three possibly have to discuss that you didn’t cover last night? _Or the night before?_ _”_

“We must stop thinking of the individual and start thinking about what is best for society.” Enjolras replied smoothly.

“Is that your poetic way of telling me that our date night has been rescheduled for the cause?” he asked, rolling his eyes as ‘Ferre and Courf followed him inside. 

“No.” Combeferre interjected. “He’s quoting Hillary Clinton.”

Grantaire didn’t even have time for a snarky reply; the three of them had already disappeared into the kitchen. With a sigh, he followed.

 _Serves me right for dating an activist,_ Grantaire thought tiredly. _He_ _’s just lucky,_ _‘cause_ _if I didn_ _’t love him so much, I_ _’d have killed him by now._

Grantaire had become very used to the these gatherings, where Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac would crowd around the table in their tiny apartment kitchen, discussing upcoming society meetings and events with fervid enthusiasm whilst he lurked about in the background. Frequently these discussions would run late into the night, especially leading up to important protests, and in these instances R would make a show of his occasional domesticity by refilling their mugs with coffee after almost every sip. The three young men were usually too deep in conversation to notice, and it was in such moments that the old stabs of jealousy would creep back into his chest. No matter how irrational he reasoned it to be – they were dating, after all, and had been for months - seeing Enjolras so animated and fervent with someone other than himself still made him clench his jaw as though in pain. If people were chameleons, he thought drily, his envy would make him as green as grass.

Aside from this, Grantaire had no quarrels with the trio’s meetings. On the contrary, for the most part he found them intriguing, like someone listening to a language they don’t understand purely for the beauty of it. He was a moth, drawn to the light given off by the three young activists. Their excitement was contagious, their enthusiasm uplifting. Each of them was utterly different in personal philosophy, but they complimented each other like well-balanced spices. Enjolras, the chief, Combeferre, the guide, and Courfeyrac, the center, formed the triumvirate of the ABC Society. Grantaire personally preferred to call them ‘the three queer, slightly aggressive, politically-active musketeers’, a phrase he used whenever possible.

As time drew on, Grantaire become bleary-eyed and delirious. He had almost fallen asleep leaning against the counter when he caught sight of the clock.

“It’s 1AM, are you almost done for the night, my dear little revolutionaries?” he yawned, knees almost buckling from exhaustion.  
  
“Almost, yeah.” Combeferre replied, no indication of finality at all in his voice. “Oh, that reminds me, I was going to ask: are you up for a rally this weekend? One of the other societies wants some extra numbers, looks like it’s going to be a big one.”

“Sounds possible. What’s the cause?” Enjolras returned.

“Anti-corruption. Apparently there’s a delegate in the National Assembly whose intent is a little worse than questionable – “

“I daresay there’s more than one of that nature.” Courfeyrac interjected with a smirk.

“Yeah, well, this guy is right up with the worst of them.” Combeferre continued. “Only problem is, he doesn’t seem to have a limit on his bribe allowances. Reliable sources suspect him of insider trading, blackmail, money laundering, civil conspiracy, the works, but he’s untouchable in the Assembly. What do you think?”  
  
“Sounds like our sort of event. I’ll text the group.” Enjolras affirmed, whipping his phone out of his pocket and typing fervidly. “When and where?”

“Saturday, kicking off at midday. The address is someplace over in the 16th arrondissement. It’s at the house of the delegate in question, Monsieur Charles de Choiseul-Praslin.”  
  
Enjolras almost choked on his coffee.

“Fucking pompous name, I know.” Courfeyrac agreed. “I’ve never heard anything so bourgeois – “

“No, it’s not that.” Enjolras gasped, his tongue burnt from the scalding coffee. “Did you say Choiseul-Praslin?”

“Yes.” Combeferre answered slowly.  
  
“We – or, well, I – can’t go along.” Enjolras stated shortly.

“But you said you were free.” Courfeyrac protested, frowning.

“I can’t, not him, and _at the house_ … I’m sorry, I-I can’t go.” Enjolras stammered, uncharacteristically tongue-tied.

“Okay, alright. I’ll tell Claude we’re already booked for that day.” Combeferre said gently, staring in bemusement at Enjolras, whose face had turned a chalky white. Grantaire could see him tapping his foot underneath the table – his nervous habit. Combeferre surveyed him with a worried glance, but knew Enjolras better than to pursue the issue.

“It’s past 1AM and I’m working tomorrow, do you guys mind if we call it a night?”Grantaire interjected with a forced yawn. “I am literally about to fall asleep standing.”

“Of course, sorry. We ought to keep a better eye on the time.” Combeferre rushed apologetically as he stood, pulling the blazer off his chair.

“We’ll catch you Wednesday morning?” Courfeyrac added as Grantaire steered them towards the door.

“Yeah, definitely.” Grantaire confirmed enthusiastically, without having any idea what Courfeyrac was talking about. “We’ll be there.”

Grantaire waved them off, leaning on the side of the doorframe to continue his facade of tiredness, and waited until the two men had rounded the corner before he closed the door. At once Enjolras sprung free from his grip, staggered a few strides, and collapsed face-down onto the couch. 

“How’d the meeting go?” Grantaire asked innocently, sitting down on the floorboards beside him.

“Fine.” Enjolras replied, his voice muffled by pillows.

“I couldn’t help but noticing you got a little, uh, uptight when they mentioned that rally on the weekend.” Grantaire added casually. “Do you want to talk about it?”  
  
“Honestly? No, not really.” Enjolras answered with cold bluntness, and Grantaire raised his eyebrows in surprise. Sensing that he had been too brusque, he rolled onto his back so that he could look at R and added:  
  
“I’m sorry, that was rude. And I’m grateful for you getting rid of Courf and ‘Ferre like that, because I can’t explain it to them, and honestly, I’m not really sure I can explain it to you either.”

“What, you don’t trust me?” Grantaire asked, only half-jokingly.

“Fuck off, no.” Enjolras returned, rolling his eyes. “I mean, yes, I can trust you. It’s not that. It’s just that… “

He sighed heavily.

“There are some things that you don’t know about me – that _no one_ knows about me. I guess I would sort of like to keep it that way.”

“Ah, I see.” Grantaire said slowly. “You want to keep up an air of mystery. Well, I’ve gotta say, I think you’ve been having around Montparnasse too much – “

“Shut up, you idiot.” Enjolras interrupted, a reluctant smile playing at his lips.

“Okay, fine. I get it. You think that, if I were to know certain things about you, it would change my perceptions of you. Am I right?”  
  
Grantaire took his silence as a yes.

“Just so you know, there’s nothing that you could tell me that would change what I think about you. Or, as I guess is more important, how I feel about you. I don’t care about your shady double life or your criminal record or your weird fetishes – “  
  
Enjolras snorted.

“ – because none of those change the fact that I am in love with you. I am in love with the way you are inhumanly grumpy in the mornings and the way you virtually ignore me for days on end when you’re preparing for a protest and the way you swear at me when you find out I’ve been drinking. ‘Cause I don’t love you in spite of your, shall I say, _shortcomings._ I love you because of them. Just, uh… so you know.” 

Enjolras leant over the side of the couch and seized Grantaire by the collar, pressing their lips together. Enjolras’ touch was gentle, but there was an urgency in his breath, and R could feel his heartbeat hammering in his neck. A moment later Enjolras pulled away, slumping back onto the couch with a groan. 

“I’ve never seen you this edgy.” Grantaire exclaimed, sitting up on his knees so that his head was level with Enjolras’. “You’re not even this anxious when you’re preparing for speeches, and that makes you pretty fucking moody.”

The comment gained no response, and Grantaire dropped the false cheerfulness from his voice.

“It’s something about that Praslin guy, the politician, isn’t it?” he asked quietly. “You lost your head the moment you heard his name.”  
  
Enjolras remained silent,

“I might look like an idiot to you, but I assure you I’m not a complete imbecile.” Grantaire snapped, incensed.

“I never said – “ Enjolras returned defensively.

“You didn’t have to, I can see it in your face. You’re an awful liar.” Grantaire said shortly. “I know when you’re hiding something, and you are now. If you trusted me at all, you would tell me what it is that’s tearing you to bits.”

Then, perhaps realizing the forcefulness of his tone, added more gently: “You know him, don’t you?" 

“I should hope so.” Enjolras replied, with a laugh that was absent of any amusement. “Charles de Choiseul-Praslin is my father.”


	2. Chapter 2

"Your father?” Grantaire repeated, dazed.

“Lamentably, yes.” Enjolras replied briefly.

The artist’s eyes were wide with surprise, their whites seeming to glow in the moonlight streaming from the window. Enjolras had sat up, his back rigidly straight in evident discomposure.

“I don’t understand.” Grantaire said weakly, shaking his head. “Your name – “

“It’s an alias.” he cut in. “It’s not legally recognized, _Enjolras_ , it’s just a pseudonym of sorts. I never wanted to go by Choiseul-Praslin - I didn’t want any association with the man - so I changed it when I ran away.”

“What is your real name?”  
  
Enjolras hesitated.

“Please.” Grantaire pleaded gently.

“Olivier. I used to be called Olivier de Choiseul-Praslin.” Enjolras replied, the words clumsy on his tongue as though they were foreign.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Grantaire asked, fighting to subdue the anger rising in his chest. “Why did you lie, to all of us?”

“Would you admit to it? Would you claim relation to someone like that?” Enjolras replied fierily. “You don’t know him, you don’t understand. He’s manipulative and unethical and ruthless. The speculations that Combeferre said are only the beginning – he makes the Watergate scandal look like an open and honest affair! Could you bear to have everyone know that you’re related to a monster like that?”

“Do you honestly think it matters to me who your family are? All I care about is you, Enjolras! Your father and his corruption could not be further from relevance!” Grantaire responded, and his voice had crept up to nearly a shout.

“It’s not as simple as that.” Enjolras returned sharply.

“I’m fairly sure it is, actually – “

“Will you just stop for one minute, so that I can explain?” Enjolras cut across in exasperation. “You can be as angry at me as you wish, once I’ve told you everything. But right now, you don’t know enough to judge me, let alone chastise me. So do you want to know the truth, or not?”

Grantaire fell silent, grinding his teeth. After a few seconds of thought, he nodded sharply.

“My old name – the name I was born with – was Olivier de Choisel-Praslin.” Enjolras said, his voice quiet and articulate. “I grew up in the 16tharrondissement, about as bourgeois as it comes. My father transitioned from the corporate sector into politics when I was a child, so by the time I was a teenager he had been elected into the Assembly.”

When he said the word ‘father’, Enjolras’ face spasmed slightly, as though from a bitter taste. He continued:

“The older I got, the more I found out about him. He was by no means a good man, in personal life or professional. I had always resented him, but I grew to hate him. Everything that Combeferre said earlier – corruption, blackmail, fraud – it’s all true. He frequently forgot that I existed, and so overheard far more than I should have. I couldn’t turn on the news or read a paper without seeing stories about all the chaos his dodgy policies helped to create. "

Enjolras shook his head slowly, his skin crawling just as it used to. He had avoided giving his father a moment’s thought for such a long time that the memories were resurging in his mind like bubbles rushing to the surface. He had forgotten his nausea, the illness that crept in the pit of his stomach. 

More notably, he had forgotten this desire to drain every inherited drop of filthy, bureaucratic blood from his body.

“Why didn’t you go forwards to the police or something, tell them what he was doing?” Grantaire interjected, frowning.

“I couldn’t.” Enjolras replied, his voice constricted and distant, and his foot recommenced its tapping. “There were messy circumstances, and besides, he had the police in his pocket. It was useless. That’s, uh, why I ran away. I was sixteen.” 

“Of course you did. Nothing screams ‘safety’ like an attractive bourgeois sixteen year-old runaway.” Grantaire said sarcastically, shaking his head. “Why weren’t you found – didn’t he look for you?”  
  
“He tried. The first few months were the hardest, with my face all over missing persons posters and on police watchlists. I knew I couldn’t use my old credit cards, or my real name, but even so my father had eyes everywhere. Sometimes people would follow me up the street, and I’d have to dodge through alleyways to lose them. He even appeared in a TV interview on the news, begging for information about my whereabouts. But he wasn’t actually concerned about me,” he added quickly, at the surprised look on Grantaire’s face. “You should have seen his popularity ratings increase after that. Everyone loves a concerned father, and even if it is pathetic to use, pity is an effective political technique.”

“Where did you go?” he probed.

“Nowhere, for a while. I lived on the streets for a few months. After that, Feuilly took me in.” Enjolras answered, his voice softening slightly. “That was three years ago. You know the rest of the story: I enrolled for the University of Paris, and then I started the ABC Society with Courfeyrac and Combeferre. And I met you.”

Grantaire remained silent, seemingly allowing time for the words to fully sink in before he mustered a response. He got to his feet abruptly, pace around the coffee table in agitation before bursting out: 

“I still don’t understand - why didn’t you tell me sooner? I don’t care that you aren’t who I thought you were, I don’t care about your bourgeois bloodline or any of that. But I _do_ care that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me!” 

“It isn’t an issue of trust.” Enjolras hissed, and suddenly he too was on his feet. “Did you not listen to a word of what Combeferre said? I’m the son of the most corrupt delegate in the entire National Assembly, possibly the single most illegitimate member of the entire French political system! Do you know what would happen to the ABC Society if news were to get out that their leader shares blood with a dodgy politician? We would be _ruined,_ Grantaire, and I know that you don’t give a fuck about the cause but I do, and the others certainly do as well, and – “  
  
“Don’t try and shift this onto me!” Grantaire cut across furiously.

“What, so you’re telling me you care about the social inequalities that plague our society?” Enjolras asked snarkily.

“I care about whatever you care about, and had you not been so utterly blind to anything but your own personal agenda, you might have noticed it!” he shouted hoarsely, narrowly resisting the temptation to pick up the nearest fragile object and throw it at a wall.

Enjolras took a half-step back, staggering slightly as though he had been struck. Had Grantaire been less distracted, he might have noticed him trembling.

 “Don’t you dare try to imply that I don’t care about you.” he said, in a quiet voice that burnt like acid. _“_ _Don_ _’_ _t you dare._ _”_

Grantaire tried to look at him, but found it like looking at a stranger. There was nothing familiar in his eyes; what had once seemed the pale blue of wildflowers in the spring was now sterile and arctic.

“I can’t deal with this.” Grantaire stated bluntly, striding towards the door and ripping his coat off the rack as he reached for the handle.

“What, you’re leaving?” Enjolras stammered. “But it’s the middle of the – “

“I need to clear my head.” he grunted, the door slamming shut with a deafening rattle.

Enjolras was frozen to the spot, a statue illuminated by moonlight, barely discernible from marble.


	3. Chapter 3

The streets were dark and empty; shadows crept in like an ocean tide in the space between the lamp posts. Grantaire blew hot breath into his hands to combat the cold, striding up the street with a speediness born of disgruntlement. He walked with no destination, no objective but to put as much distance between himself and the apartment as possible.

He ran the last hour through his head, struggling to grapple with the reality of the situation, trying to erase the feeling that the argument had been a scene from a movie or a chapter of a book.

 _These sorts of things don’t happen. They just don’t,_ Grantaire thought furiously. _This is the twenty-first century, for god’s sake; people don’t have fake names and tragic backstories and lies woven into every damn sentence…_

A day ago, had he been asked who he knew best in the world, his answer would have been immediate: Enjolras. Grantaire knew the meaning of every little gleam in his eyes and every angle of his lips, all the things that made him smile and the things that made him scowl, he knew all the ways he tried to hide away and all the little falsehoods he wove into his charade of _fearless leader._

  _Well, I thought I did, at least,_ Grantaire amended dully. _Evidently he’s a better actor than I gave him credit for._

 As he crossed into the Luxembourg Gardens, he decided that it would not, perhaps, have struck him as hard had Enjolras not lied about his name. But the fact that even the most fundamental parts of the man had been devised and planned, like some elaborate hoax or alien conspiracy, was what caused the tightness in his chest. _Olivier_ – the word felt foreign on his tongue.

 Grantaire had been in love, helplessly and irrevocably, with the man he thought he had known. It still remained to work out whether he could even stand to face the stranger behind that mask.

 He walked on, his feet stumbling and scraping on the gravel. The park, always so bustling during the day, was as still as a graveyard. The garden beds that burst with colour during the day, brimming with petals of lilac and pearl and butterscotch, were shadowy masses of obsidian. Every monument or fountain or park bench was a silhouette, but a vague impression of its glory when the sun was present to bathe them in light. Grantaire felt like a ghost, drifting through a place of such joy and beauty and finding in it nothing but an abyss of night.

 Grantaire emerged from beneath the eerie boughs and stepped out onto a grassy pavilion. Even at night, he recognised it at once. Enjolras had once texted him, asking to meet here when he finished work. Grantaire’s mind had jumped, both foolishly and optimistically, to clichéd sunset walks or romantic picnics. Instead, he had found several hundred incensed protesters gathered on the grass – later, he discovered that it was an impromptu rally in response to a legislative proposition earlier that day. At the front of the crowd had stood Enjolras, wielding his megaphone like a weapon, his face animated and alight. It had not been a romantic evening date, but the sight of Enjolras so thoroughly alive had been, to Grantaire, perhaps even better.

 Now, the field was stark and ominous. He walked on, shoulders hunched.

 There was a rumble of thunder, quiet but menacing, and Grantaire turned his eyes skyward; the clouds were ominously grey. Having no poetic desire to experience Paris in the rain, and feeling that drowning in sorrows was in any case superior to drowning in a literal downpour, he hastened his strides and took the shortest path through the park, exiting at the nearest gate. He was halfway up the block when the drops began to fall. With a low noise of annoyance he hurried along the avenue, hands stuffed in his pockets, the cold droplets stinging his face.

 A few minutes later he had arrived at a nondescript door, let himself inside – the residents of the building being mostly students, it was seldom locked – and hastily crossed the apartment courtyard. He caught the rattling elevator to the second floor and quietly toed down the hall, stopping in front of one of the doors and rapping intently. He paused, brushing aside the damp hair that clung to his forehead, before knocking again. There was the sound of shuffling inside, and the door swung open, the gangly, bed-haired young man behind it blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

 “Grantaire?” he questioned sleepily. “I, uh, you’re… Why?”

 “I’m sorry it’s so late, Joly,” Grantaire gushed apologetically. “It’s just that I don’t have a place to stay, and – “

 “Of course, yeah, no worries. Come in.” Joly replied immediately, taking a half step backwards and then stopping sharply as if in sudden recollection. “Oh, I should warn you, though, I think I’ve contracted a potentially infectious strain of viral pharyngitis.”

 “I’ll take my chances.” Grantaire returned with a forced smile, following him inside.

 

~ # ~ # ~ # ~

 

Enjolras waited in the living room for Grantaire to return. It occurred to him, as the clock ticked over to 4AM, that he might not return at all. This did not prevent him from waiting, and when his legs could no longer bear standing he curled up on the couch, knees pressed to his chest and arms wrapped tight like chains around his shins. He might have been able to sleep, but he refused to face their bed alone – without Grantaire tangled in the sheets beside him, the place would be utterly foreign.

 He did not worry for Grantaire’s safety as such; the man was more capable than most, and between his boxing and wisdom of the streets, he was perfectly able to protect himself. No, Enjolras fretted about his mind, and where it might wander when let loose into the night, for he knew full well that even the city of lights can be an exceptionally dark place.

 After lying to his face for so long, Enjolras realised that he should not have been so surprised by Grantaire’s reaction. Even so, he could not have imagined that he would take the matter so to heart, nor could he have foreseen how much it would hurt Enjolras when he did. Enjolras had always been one for sympathy, rather than empathy; he had found little time for excessive emotion, and struggled with the notion of how some people allowed their hearts to pull them around, like a wild wind in a sail. But now, and all at once, he understood the way in which emotions could play so easily with people, like a master puppeteer with strings in hand. Grantaire’s absence was, to him, very much present, and it stung like an exposed nerve.

 When the first droplets of rain sprayed against the window, he felt a chill pass over him as though his blood had turned to ice, and he picked up his cell phone from the coffee table. He blinked the blinding light of the screen from his eyes, and with clumsy, fumbling fingers typed a message. He hesitated before pressing send.

  _Hope you’re safe, will talk soon._

He waited for a few minutes, before realising that Grantaire would have no intention of replying, even if he were able to – Enjolras still deemed it more than likely that Grantaire was passed out, drunk, in some bar in the dingiest corner of Paris. It would not have been the first time such a thing had occurred in the span of their relationship, by any means.

 When the first rays of light pierced through the window, Enjolras’ stomach sank. He had still hoped that Grantaire might return before morning, so that they could have a chance to talk and make amends before he had to go to work. The prospect of waiting until night to speak to him was already maddening, his impatience evident in his short, hasty paces. Back, forth. Back, forth.

 To appease the nagging worries that circled through his head, he considered sending out a group message to the Amis, to see if Grantaire had at least spent the night in safety. However this, he realised, would make it immediately apparent that they were at odds – and the last thing he needed was a crowd of well-meaning friends probing into the cause of their disputes and tearing skeletons out of closets.

 As soon as the thought had struck him, Enjolras was appalled. Without even contemplatingit, he had prioritised his own reputation over Grantaire’s safety. At another time it might have struck Enjolras as ironic that someone who so valued ethical standards in others could forgo any hint of morality himself, if doing what was evidently right meant discomfort on his own part. As it was, the thought made him ill, and he was hit by a familiar wave of self-loathing.

  _I don’t deserve him,_ Enjolras thought, seething at himself like an angry cat. _I am a lying bastard, a self-indulgent degenerate. God knows what Grantaire sees in me, there are chunks of rock more worthy of love. They’d probably be more affectionate, too._

It had occurred to Enjolras before – repeatedly, in fact – that he and Grantaire were too different for their relationship not to end in disaster. The former was analytical, the latter, creative; every ounce of belief and conviction in Enjolras was matched with cynicism and distrust by Grantaire; whilst one could talk to crowds with earnestness and fervour, the other had the common touch.

 Enjolras had taken enough high school science classes to know that their love was a physics lesson, a textbook page played out in flesh and blood and heart: opposite forces attracting. But for perhaps the first time, he was not without doubt – _surely_ this miracle could not last. Inevitably it must fade, like a pleasant dream forgotten by morning. This whole debacle might just have been enough, Enjolras thought, to ensure that fate.

He replayed the situation over and over in his mind, still unable to decide whether or not he had made the right choice. Should he have told Grantaire about his past, or should he have let ignorance be bliss? The stark black and white of his moral compass had blurred into grey. Had it been too soon, or perhaps too late, to let the truth have its day?

 In the end, he decided that though he did not wholly regret his honesty in the matter, having his old name and his upbringing and his father dragged back to the forefront of his mind was far from relieving.

 Suddenly Enjolras’ phone buzzed, snapping him out of his thoughts like a drowning man being pulled to the surface. His heart sank as he read the sender: not Grantaire, but Joly. He perked up slightly as he read the message.

  _what’s the story with r???_

 Enjolras snatched up the phone and hurriedly typed a reply.

  _Is he with you?_

 A few agonizing moments later, Joly answered.

  _he just left for work._

As if sensing Enjolras’ tension, he added:

  _don’t worry, he hasn’t been drinking or anything. he turned up at my door last nite and slept on the couch. seemed a little shaky, but he’s ok._ _hope u 2 are all good??_

The last thing Enjolras wanted to do was draw undue attention to himself or to Grantaire, and so he replied as neutrally as possible.

  _We’re fine, thank you._

The screen showed Joly typing a response, so Enjolras quickly cut him off:

_Sorry, got to go – see you at the next meeting._

 Enjolras set down the phone and fell back onto the couch. His eyes were heavy, but nothing could have convinced him to sleep whilst Grantaire’s safety was dubious. But now, the full force of his exhaustion hit him. He was unused to such exertion of the heart, unaccustomed to this anxiety and worry, and the surge in emotion had left him as fatigued as if he had run a marathon. He did not resist as unconsciousness lapped at his mind, seeping into his thoughts like a cool tide.

 His last thought was that, with any luck, Grantaire would be home when he awoke.


	4. Chapter 4

Enjolras had always been a light sleeper, and so the moment he heard the key in the door his eyes flew open, his gaze was immediately drawn to the doorway. Grantaire slipped off his coat and dumped his leather satchel onto the floor before turning to look at him, his face unreadable – or at least so to Enjolras, who suffered from total ignorance to emotional reactions that were not flagrant.

“You’re home.” Enjolras murmured, the sleep still laden in the huskiness of his voice. 

“Yeah. I, uh… yeah.” Grantaire replied, hands stuffed in his pockets.

Enjolras stared at him through doe lashes. He was absurdly splayed across the sofa, his head resting on the pillows nearest the door so that he had to crane his neck and look upside-down to see Grantaire. His curls were a messy sprawl, the colour of marigold.

“Look, you should know that I wasn’t going to come back.” he interjected bluntly.

Enjolras rolled onto his stomach, staring at Grantaire as if the very fate of the universe depending on their eye contact remaining resolute. “What changed your mind?” 

“I missed you.”

His words had no hint of shame, no dishonesty or exaggeration or calculation. Enjolras’ heart hammered in his throat, and in one fluid movement he was off the couch and wrapped around Grantaire, their lips pressing together with urgency. Their breaths were short and shared, hands tied up in each other’s hair. 

“I am so sorry. I am so sorry.” Enjolras mumbled, their lips separated just enough for speech, foreheads still touching. “I know you must be furious at me, and – “

 “I’m not angry.”

“It’s okay, R, you don’t have to lie, I can take it – “

 “I’m not lying.” Grantaire returned. “I wanted so much to be angry at you, but I can’t really bring myself to do it. God, I’m so pathetic. I’m just a doormat to you, aren’t I? My only use is for you to wipe the mud off your shoes.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” Enjolras huffed, breaking away from Grantaire’s embrace and pacing rigidly.

 “Am I, though? I let myself get stepped all over, because at the end of the day I’m a penniless drunk and you are – “

 “The son of a corrupt politician? An overly-idealistic student activist? An emotionless chunk of marble?” Enjolras suggested fiercely. “Give the inferiority complex a bit of a rest, will you? Just stop.”

 Grantaire fell silent, a brooding, wounded pause.

 “I’d apologize, but frankly I’m too pissed off at you for that.” he muttered.

 “I don’t want your apologies, I just want you to stop acting like I’m the fucking sun and you’re the insect that’s shriveled up and died from my heat, or whatever.” Enjolras burst out in exasperation. “It’s driving me insane – no, actually, it isn’t, it just _hurts.”_

 The artist noted that Enjolras’ eyes had flooded with tears, and the sight sent a wave of nausea rushing to the pit of his stomach.

 “When you look at me, you see some precious commodity, some sort of godlike creature. But they’re rose-tinted glasses you’re looking through, R, don’t you see? I am not the protagonist of this story we’re writing, Grantaire, I’m just not.” Enjolras spat. “I’m not the person you seem to think I am, and I’m not just talking about my name. You see me as being so, so much better than I am. And it makes you feel shit, and it hurts me so much to see you like that. To know that it’s because of me.”

 “It isn’t your fault, it’s mine, I – “

 “It _is_ my fault, or at least partially. Complacence to wrongdoing is as bad as perpetrating it, and I have certainly become complacent in this. It has to stop. I can’t bear knowing that I’m causing you harm. Because – despite seemingly common misconception – I care about you. A fucking lot, actually.” he added, almost angrily.

 Grantaire’s face was blank for a moment, plastered with vague shock. It took him a moment to muster a response, and his hands began to tremble slightly. His usual olive complexion was like snow.

 “It’s all very well in words, but in practice, it’s a whole different ball game.” he uttered quietly. “Do you know what it’s like to look in the mirror and hate what you see, Enjolras?”

 “Yeah, I do.” Enjolras retorted fierily. “When I look in the mirror, I see my father’s face, his hair before it turned grey, his eyes. I’m the foul offspring of a man who has systematically ensured the suffering of thousands. The same blood that ran in those veins runs in mine.”

“That’s not what I see.” Grantaire stated boldly.

 “Well when I look at you, I don’t see a spineless alcoholic either, for the record. I see someone who is talented and warm-hearted and probably the most incredible person I’ve ever met, actually.” Enjolras returned, and an angry blush appeared on the other man’s cheeks. “The way we see ourselves and the way we actually appear are two entirely different matters. And if you can’t realise that – if you _insist_ on deprecating yourself and placing me on a pedestal – then I am going to walk out of that door right now, and not come back. For both of our sakes.”

 Grantaire blinked, once, twice.

“Now yell at me, for god’s sake.” Enjolras begged impatiently. “I lied to you. Be angry, please – “ 

Grantaire reached forwards and slammed his lips against Enjolras’, their jaws colliding clumsily. Suddenly, before Enjolras could really register the fact, they were wrapped around each other, breathing in the other’s scent – Grantaire like cologne and maple, and Enjolras with a light, mineral airiness, as if of champagne. The kiss was urgent and inelegant, with teeth and tongues and lips crashing together like waves against a pier. Somehow Enjolras managed to bite down on Grantaire’s bottom lip, and the other man snorted with laughter, forcing them apart.

“I’m gonna take a raincheck on that anger, actually. Save it for a really special occasion.” Grantaire murmured, arms looped around Enjolras’ waist, swaying back and forth lightly.

“That sounds… sinister?”  
  
“It should. But, uh, in future – no more lies, right?”  
  
“Absolutely not.” Enjolras confirmed. “I’m an open book.”

“You sort of always were.” Grantaire replied with a smirk, a lock of golden hair twisted around his finger. “Well, except for that minor thing about the corrupt father and the fake name and such. But hey, that’s just a speed hump, right?”  
  
Enjolras hesitated for a moment, frowning lightly.

“Was that sarcasm? I think it was sarcasm, but I’m really struggling to interpret your satire today. You need to improve your communicative skills.“

Grantaire smiled wordlessly, twisting a lock of golden hair around his index finger. How could he have second-guessed Enjolras? His was not a personality that could be feigned or performed, after all. It was impossible to replicate those naively clueless comments, nor yet the fierce glint in his eyes when emblazoned with passion. Enjolras was in himself a juxtaposition between severity and gentility, compassion and callousness. Grantaire realised, now, that Enjolras could be the son of a king or of a beggar and it would make no difference to his outlook - he had no interest in being anyone but his own man. It just so happened that Grantaire had fallen amorously for his particular blend of eclectic traits and eccentric behaviours, and it would take far more than a paternal scandal to shake that foundation.

 “Do you, uh, want to talk?” Enjolras asked, slightly perturbed by Grantaire’s silence. “Is there anything you want to know? I am, as we’ve established, _an open book.”_

“You know what? No.” Grantaire replied nonchalantly. “I’ve had enough talking and seriousness for one day, at least. Let’s just… I don’t know, do anything else. Movie night?”

Enjolras looked slightly stupefied, but followed Grantaire towards the sofa. “Uh, yeah, sure thing. Any requests?”

“How about ‘The Shining’?” Grantaire put forward.

“You hate horror movies.” Enjolras replied, brow furrowed deeply. “Remember that time you saw ‘Alien’ with Jehan? You were inconsolable.”

“Yeah, but I’m thinking films with terrible fathers, and Jack Nicholson chasing that kid through the maze with an axe seems like a pretty decent example of mediocre parenting." 

Enjolras looked pensive for a moment.

“How about Star Wars?” he suggested earnestly. “I mean, Darth Vader, the whole ‘I am your father’ ordeal - that’s a fairly awkward father-son moment.”

“Good call.”


	5. Chapter 5

Grantaire fell asleep on Enjolras’ shoulder just a few minutes after the opening credits, and Enjolras gently reached for the remote and muted the television to allow him some rest. After all, the man had probably barely slept the night before – Enjolras presumed he had found the couch of one friend or another, but even then, it was unlikely that he could rest easily with such conspiracies hanging over him.

 This was confirmed when Grantaire clocked a solid eight hours of sleep, half-slumped across the couch and his boyfriend alike. Enjolras, prone to insomnia in any case, was more than happy to be utilized as such.

It was only by necessity that Enjolras extracted himself from the couch, careful to replace where his body had sat with pillows. Grantaire barely stirred as he stuck a quickly scrawled note on the fridge - this was their usual system for unexplained absences, for they had both been known to send out urgent text messages in search for their missing partner only to find them down the street picking up groceries. Enjolras made sure to tug the curtains firmly shut, shielding out the butterscotch sunrise that teased at the windows, and then spent about ten seconds closing the door behind him to prevent the latch from clicking and disturbing ‘Taire.

Enjolras descended the stairs and stepped out onto the street, basking in the morning bustle of the city he revered. Usually he would rather walk and take in the sights and scents of a sleepy Paris – the boulangeries drifting with the scent of bread, the flower stalls propping up here and there, the students and workers hurrying along the footpath with the combination of purposefulness and poise expected of _un parisien_ – but today he was running too late to allow for it. He took the metro westbound from Luxembourg and emerged from the underground at the nearest stop to the Sorbonne, making straight for the coffee shop around the corner – the triumvirate’s usual haunt.

“G’morning, monsieur Enjolras, and how are you this glorious morning?” called a bubbly voice from behind the counter, as the bell rang to mark his entry.

“Hey, Bossuet, _ça va?”_ he replied warmly.

“Life is good, mon ami.” Bossuet said, beaming earnestly. “I’ve only broken three mugs in the last week, my manager says that at this rate he might keep me around!”

 “That’s great, fantastic.” Enjolras responded absentmindedly, checking his watch. “Uh, are ‘Ferre and – “

“Out the back.”

_“Merci.”_

Their coffee shop of choice – Café Musain – was as much a personality in the ABC Society as any of its members. It was a small shop, undersized as opposed to boutique, with only a dozen or so tables of various mismatched varieties. The front counter boasted a cluttered assortment of beverage paraphernalia, including an impressive copper coffee machine that had been neglected to the point of looking antique. The walls were chipped red brick, with the exception of the rear wall, which comprised of a vast, heavily graffitied blackboard – a combination of mundane scribbles courtesy of Bahorel and some absurdly artistic typography from Grantaire.On the side of the room was a notice board so overflowing with messages that the cork beneath was no longer visible. With the exception of a lost dog poster or two, all of them advertised various upcoming events of the ABC.

 This was the pivotal location for the Society, a humble little café where keen students wanting to change the world did their best to do so. And, though it was old and worn-down, the Musain was abuzz with the life they brought to it.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac were already settled in their usual spot in the back corner, four coffees on the rickety tabletop – ‘Ferre had an aversion to odd numbers, and they had unanimously decided that it was better to humor this particular compulsion rather than set him anxious so early in the day.

It seemed to be working, because neither man looked remotely troubled. They were seated at a sensible interval from each other, but Enjolras noted with a small smile that they were holding hands under the table. The pair had been dating ever since Enjolras had met them, but Combeferre preferred to be subtle, a fact which somewhat conflicted with Courfeyrac’s brazenly bubbly nature. It was not an issue of sufficient weight to bother him, though – Enjolras had never met a couple that better complimented each other than the calculation of Combeferre and the vivacity of Courfeyrac. Even their appearances were perfectly opposing – ‘Ferre’s dark umber skin against Courf’s olive, towering and slim versus five feet seven inches of baby fat, sharp jaw compared with rounded, angelic features.

“You’re late.” Combeferre pointed out as Enjolras sat down, his voice gently scolding.

“I’m sorry, Grantaire fell asleep on me.” he answered unabashedly. “Okay, what’s the agenda?”

 “We cancelled the corruption rally – no point without you, really – but we’re going ahead with the Palestine solidarity event next month.” Courfeyrac explained swiftly. “Feuilly is a little bit _too_ excited.”

“Oh, that reminds me - Grantaire finished the design for the rally posters. Can you drop by the printing shop on Rue d’Affiche? They usually give us a discount, because we’re regulars – “

“Uh, could we maybe go word-of-mouth on this one?” Courfeyrac suggested half-heartedly, hiding behind his coffee mug.

Enjolras’ brow crinkled. “The last time we tried that, we ended up outnumbered by riot police ten to one. I can drop the posters in if you’re busy, but seeing as you live around the block – “  
  
“No, no, you misunderstand me. It’s not the time.” Courfeyrac clarified, glancing at Combeferre with panic. “At times like these I call upon the wise words of our lord and savior, Jessie J – ‘it’s not about the money, money, money’. Except that in this case, it, uh, actually is about the money.”

Enjolras blinked in total confusion – which was not an uncommon response to Courfeyrac, by any account – and glanced across and Combeferre for reassurance.

“I’m sorry, Enjolras, but I’m with Courfeyrac on this one, maybe we could just set up a Facebook page or something…”

“How about an Instagram?” Courfeyrac suggested enthusiastically. “I can see it now - #FreePalestine. It’ll be a huge hit – “  
  
“Is there a problem that I’m not aware of?” Enjolras asked suspiciously, with all the disdain of a child not getting their own way.

Combeferre, who had been busying himself with cleaning his glasses, placed the thick black frames on the table and took a deep breath.

“We’re bankrupt, Enjolras.” he admitted. “We can’t afford a printing job – hell, we can’t afford a postage stamp.”  
  
_“What?_ We can’t be.” Enjolras replied indignantly. “There was that thousand euro grant – “ 

“Which we’d used up within about two months.” Courfeyrac cut in, his mocha eyes gently apologetic.

 Combeferre ground his teeth, jaw clenched tight. “We’ve been in the red for months. I’ve been getting everyone to chip in a few spare cents if they’ve got it, just to cover expenses – legal, medical, and then the obvious travel stuff and banners and – “

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Enjolras interrupted fierily, full of a conviction that was less righteous than hostile. “I could have helped, I should have been contributing to this.”

“You do enough for the ABC as it is.” Combeferre interjected shortly. “Besides, the arrangement is that I work out the finances, Courfeyrac covers logistics, and you give the speeches. That’s the system.”

Enjolras’ lips were pursed in evident displeasure. His foot tapped nervously, but as usual he seemed unconscious to it. This could not be said of Courfeyrac and Combeferre, who briefly exchanged a look of discomfort. Enjolras could almost see the exchange of thoughts, as if something physical was passing between them – an expression of concern, some comfort, a question, an unsure response. Enjolras felt like a pariah.

“If I could – hypothetically – acquire some additional funding from a potentially illegitimate source,” he said slowly. “Would that still be considered morally repugnant? I mean, it is for charity, essentially…”  
  
“Enjolras, are you suggesting that we steal – “ Combeferre began warningly.  
  
“It’s not illegal.” he interjected quickly. “It technically belongs to me anyway, but…”

“You’re not making sense, Enjolras. C’mon, you can’t keep us in the dark on this.” Courfeyrac implored.

_Like you have with me?_ Enjolras thought snidely, but bit his lip.

“I need to talk to Grantaire first.” he stated shortly. “I just need his advice about this. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to imply that you’re not worthy of my trust or – “

“Hey, it’s fine, don’t stress.” Courfeyrac assured him, smiling sympathetically. “Go find your boyfriend and sit him down for the talk. Well, not _the_ talk – hopefully he’s already had that - but – “

“That’s it, you’ve reached your word limit for the day.” Combeferre announced. “Enough. I would physically cover your mouth if I were not concerned about the bacterial risk of such an action." 

“He’s right, though – you should find R.” Combeferre added, turning to Enjoras. “We can cover things here.”

As soon as Enjolras had strode out of the room, Combeferre let loose an uncharacteristically irritable growl, fidgeting and flittering as though nervous.

“What’s wrong with you?” Courfeyrac asked incredulously, too taken aback to be amused – an angry Combeferre was beyond a rarity.

“I’m supposed to be the one that solves the problems around here. You and Enjolras go and get yourselves into trouble, and I get you out of it – that’s what I’m good for! And now look at what a fucking mess I’ve made.” Combeferre snapped, an ugly rouge appearing on his dark cheeks. His hands flew as he talked, short, nervous gestures that were absent from his ordinary speech.

“It’s not your fault, you couldn’t possibly have managed our finances any more meticulously.” Courfeyrac reasoned. “Without you as treasurer, we’d have been much further in debt, much sooner. Can you imagine Jehan dealing with this shit? I mean, we’d have some lovely flower arrangements, I’m sure – “

Combeferre snorted with laughter.

“ – but as far as sound financial management goes… No one but you could handle it.Without you, we would be totally screwed.”  
  
“Isn’t that what we are now?”  
  
“Nope. We’re only a _little bit_ screwed.”

Combeferre tore off his glasses again, and rubbed his eyes petulantly. “For the record, next time we’re in debt, I’m robbing a bank. I am literally going to rob a bank. I could be in and out of there in ten minutes, and they wouldn’t even know they’d been hit until I was twenty kilometers up the road in a getaway car.”

Courfeyrac did not count this as an exaggeration.


	6. Chapter 6

Enjolras retracted his path back to the apartment block, almost breaking into a jog in his haste. This time, he made no efforts to let himself in quietly – he burst into the apartment in a clatter of keys, breath slightly short.

 “Grantaire, are you awake?”  
  
There was a long, low groan from the couch, and a mumble that sounded vaguely like, “I am now.”

“Good, because it’s a lovely day outside and we’re going for a walk.” Enjolras declared, seizing Grantaire around the waist and pulling him to his feet; if he were not so busy being sleep-dazed and reluctant, Grantaire might have realized that the slender man was surprisingly strong.

Grantaire did not bother protesting, and let Enjolras lead them downstairs. The sunlight was piercing as they stepped out of the foyer, but the air no longer bit with the frostiness of an early spring morning. Enjolras seized Grantaire’s hand as they walked, giving it a short, cheerful squeeze.

“Okay, what’s wrong?” Grantaire asked suspiciously – Enjolras was scarcely so affectionate, and never in public.

“Wrong? Why does something have to be wrong?” he replied in a voice somewhat higher than usual, glancing up and down the street as though a tourist. Grantaire glared.

“Fine. Something is wrong.” he admitted reluctantly. “But I thought it’d be better to walk and talk, so… let’s walk.”

After a few minutes, they had reached the Abbey of St-Germain. Enjolras let them to a bench opposite the belfry. Their fingers were still knotted together like strands of rope.

The church was quite unexceptional just a blocky stone structure, but inside was a large stained glass display of which Grantaire was quite fond – not the most spectacular in the city, by any means, but simplistically appealing. From where they were sitting, Grantaire could see a sliver of the blues and greens, and he doubted that it was by coincidence that Enjolras had chosen this bench.

 _And he says he’s not romantic,_ Grantaire thought jauntily.

“Most of the abbey was destroyed in the Revolution, y’know. They used it as an armory.” Enjolras stated conversationally, and Grantaire resisted the urge to roll his eyes, mentally retracting his previous thought. Was there anything more _Enjolras_ than making small talk about Parisian revolutionary history?

Grantaire opened his mouth to reply, but fell silent as a middle-aged woman approached on the footpath, and upon spotting the two of them, wrinkled her nose in disgust. This did not go unnoticed by either of them.

“Faggots.” she muttered as she walked past, not bothering to lower her voice.

“That’s not what your mother called me when I fucked her last night!” Grantaire yelled after her gruffly. The woman whipped around, face screwed up with insult, and stalked off huffily, mumbling under her breath.

“Grantaire, that was crude.” Enjolras scolded coldly, eyebrows furrowed.

“Well, she deserved it, the homophobic bitch. You might put up with that sort of shit, but I assure you I won’t. Judge people based on what they do, not on what they are. We’re outside an abbey, what’s that verse about – “  
  
“Judge not, lest ye be judged. Matthew 7:1.” Enjolras stated quietly. “Yes, well, maybe keep the shouting of profanities to a minimum, if that’s alright." 

Grantaire rolled his eyes, but nodded reluctantly. He could sense Enjolras’ nervousness, could feel the unusual clamminess of his hands, and so he queried mildly:

“You had something you needed to talk about with me, right?”

Enjolras cleared his throat. “Yes, you’re right, I did – I do. How long have you know that the ABC Society was in debt?”

  
Grantaire’s glare shifted guiltily. “Look, you’ve gotta understand that ‘Ferre made me promise not to tell you – “

“I’m not angry about it – “

“I know, you don’t need to get defensive about it.” Grantaire replied, slightly irritably. “Combeferre only came to me for money a couple times, ‘cause I guess he knew I didn’t have much to give, but I did my best to scrounge around and gather up a few euros here and there.”  
  
“I guess that’s why you cancelled the order for that paint set you wanted.”  
  
Grantaire grinned, looking away. “Yeah, that’d be about right.”

“You don’t even believe in our cause – “ Enjolras fumed.  
  
“Well, I don’t _not_ believe in it – " 

“You shouldn’t have donated.” he snapped, an angry blush rouging his cheeks. “You shouldn’t have had to make sacrifices for that.”  
  
“But I did, so let’s just move on, shall we?” Grantaire suggested irritably, letting go of his hand. Enjolras picked it back up again, like a persistent cat playing with a piece of string. 

“If I could make this all go away,” he uttered in a voice quiet but hardened, watching the pedestrians walk by at the pace of a Parisian stroll. “Instantly, would you let me?” 

“You’re not actually asking for permission. You can’t be serious.” Grantaire laughed hollowly, whipping around to face him with incensed disbelief.  
  
“I’m always serious.” Enjolras replied stonily. “I’m tired of hiding things from you. It’s about time the truth had its day.”

Grantaire took a steadying breath. “Okay, fine. How do you propose we fix this?” 

“Well, I could claim my inheritance.”

There was a deeply uncomfortable pause, a few seconds that felt like minutes. Grantaire’s grip had gone hard and unnatural.

“I don’t understand.”

“Every member of my family is able to access money out of the Choiseul-Praslin trust on the day they turn twenty.” Enjolras uttered quietly, eyes cast down towards the cobblestone. “There’s two million euros sitting in a bank account, waiting for me to claim it.”

“We’ve been struggling to pay rent for months now, so there’s gotta be a reason why you haven’t done this sooner.” Grantaire returned bluntly, eyes narrowed. “So, if it’s true that you don’t want to lie to me, tell me why you didn’t claim the money sooner.”

 Enjolras waited for a crowd of American tourists to pass by before he reluctantly answered. “It’s dirty. Corruption, bureaucracy, everything. My family are not honest breadwinners, and to claim the money would be like saying that stealing from the poor to further one’s own wealth is acceptable practice. Which is contrary to every fiber in my body.”

Grantaire shook his head. “But the money would be going towards the Society, taking from the rich to give to the poor. Didn’t you ever read Robin Hood as a child?”  
  
“My parents never bothered to read to me.” he replied shortly. Grantaire was too caught up in his thoughts to contemplate the gentle tragedy of his words.

“It’s your parents, isn’t it? Well, your father.” Grantaire murmured gently. “If you claim the money, they’ll be able to track the account. They’ll find you.”

Enjolras glanced up through his mess of hair, eyes widely desolate.

“I wouldn’t care, and I wish I could bring myself not to, but I’ve spent the last five years trying to distance myself from my… from him.” he stammered, face screwing up as though from a sour taste. “And this would render all of that totally irrelevant.” 

Grantaire appeared afflicted, the creases on his brow deep and anxious. “When you were a kid, he used to hurt you. Am I right? Tell me I’m wrong."  
  
Enjolras looked away, under the pretense of examining the abbey. “Why do you think that?”  
  
He shrugged. “You’ve been arrested at protests, attacked, confronted by mobs, and you face it without wavering. When you talk about _him_ , you look afraid.”

“There aren’t even any scars left.” Enjolras said dismissively.  
  
“No physical scars, perhaps.” Grantaire amended, moving his feet slightly to shoo away the pigeons that had gathered there.

“Look, I came to you for a reason. I want your permission before I go down this road.”

“My _permission?_ You’ve never bothered with that before.” he scoffed, lashing out at a bird, which flew away in a panic. “Usually it’s more a system of ‘get arrested first, ask questions later’ – “  
  
“Don’t screw around, or I’ll regret asking you.” Enjolras said flatly.

Grantaire sighed, turning to face him fully. “Okay, give it to me, then.”  
  
“My father is an absolute bastard.” Enjolras replied with almost uncharacteristic bluntness. “He is going to put up a fight. There might be legal pursuits. He’ll almost certainly do all he can to make you lose your job, the apartment, and anything else he can influence to make our lives hell. The media will almost certainly catch on, and as soon as they find out that I’m in a relationship – even more so, a queer one – they will stalk both of us. Now that I’m not just a politician’s son but a politician’s _queer runaway activist_ son, there won’t be any privacy for either of us. And – “

“What about you?” Grantaire asked, cutting across his rambling. “What about you having to face your abusive sadist of a father?”

He was having a hard time picturing anything but a child version of Enjolras, his face not yet angular and fierce but with the roundness of youth, flinching away from a foreboding figure’s clenched fist. The image almost made him gag. 

“No kid should be put through that.” Grantaire stated firmly, fighting through the knot in his throat. “You ran away for a reason – are you really prepared to go back?”

 “I am.” Enjolras responded assuredly, face set as though challenging someone to contradict him. “Are you?”

 _Being in love with you hurts anyway,_ Grantaire thought. _What does a little more pain matter?_

“Yep, I reckon I am.” he said instead, with poorly-feigned bravado. “Fuck your dad. Not literally, that’d be weird.”

Enjolras screwed up his face and tugged at his hair, exhaling forcefully while Grantaire laughed, the sound like crackling leaves.

“C’mon, you know that was funny. Tell me I’m funny. Don’t make me tickle you.” 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is this? A regular update?! New year, new me, guys, and I'm firmly back on board with this fic, so be prepared for actual regular updates (as well as mounting tension and angst, you're welcome). 
> 
> Thank you all for the support, I appreciate it so much! If you're enjoying the story, please subscribe and share it with a friend so that you can suffer through hurt/comfort together.

Standing on the doorstep of his father’s house and contemplating entering was, to Enjolras, not unlike deciding whether or not to throw himself headfirst into a lion’s den. He had managed to slip past the security detail with almost unfair ease – after all, they were just a few hired suits in an SUV at the end of the block, no more difficult than some of the ‘field projects’ the ABC had executed - and was now staring at the doorbell with a sinking feeling. Dread, he noted glumly, or a sudden violent wave of nausea. The two notions seemed suddenly indistinguishable.

This was not made easier by the fact that this place, the neat little rue in one of Paris’ richest suburbs, had barely changed at all. It was identical to the haze of his childhood memories. It was all to easy to picture himself walking to school along the footpath, or hiding in the garden with a book to escape his squabbling parents. The same extravagant buildings were seen up and down the street, expensive furnishings visible through the windows of the lower levels, and a few well-dressed residents milling around inside. It was a far cry from what Enjolras had grown to know in the last few years, to say the least.

In the days since he had left this street, he had more than broken his hereditary inclination towards excess and luxury. Now he deemed it luxury enough to be able to pay both rent _and_ his amassing student debt. Even his current situation was comparatively gaudy – after all, he had a roof over his head and enough money for groceries, two things that he could not have claimed just a few short years ago. He had fought enough of the battles of the underprivileged that it was now impossible for Enjolras to view his childhood home without scorn. He automatically eyed every lavish chaise with the thought of how many weeks of food it could guarantee a homeless family, and the loathing writhed deep in the pit of his stomach. In comparison to many he’d been lucky, being picked up by Feuilly after just a few months. If Enjolras was honest with himself, he doubted whether he would have been able to survive on the streets much longer if he hadn’t have been.

 _It isn_ _’t too late,_ a feeble voice in the back of his mind crooned. _It isn_ _’t too late to just go home, put all of this behind you once and for all._

Though a poor judge of others’ character, he was at least a good judge of his own, and saw the cowardly whim for what it was. Enjolras drew in a deep breath, rattling slightly with indignation, and pressed the doorbell.

It was only a moment before the door opened, to reveal not his father but a tuxedoed man Enjolras did not recognize. This did not surprise him – the duties of Charles de Choiseul-Praslin’s butler naturally included anything the senator himself was too dignified to do, such as answering his own door. His father had also always been of the mindset that staff were much like possessions – that is, to be acquired and dismissed at a whim – and made it habit to lay off his butlers and maids at monthly intervals.

“May I help you, monsieur?” the butler inquired, his clipped, enunciated voice only the tip of the iceberg in hinting at his employer’s pretentiousness.

“Ah, yes, you may – I have an appointment with Monsieur Praslin.” Enjolras lied, with the promptness of a businessman in something of a rush.

“Monsieur asked you to visit his personal residence, rather than his office?” the man asked, a skeptical eyebrow slightly raised.

 Enjolras could see the butler glancing at him up and down, a hundred inconsistencies immediately appearing in his mind. He looked far too young to be a businessman, he knew. He had made a deliberate effort to dress formally, replacing his usual duffle coat with a more polished blazer and even going without his favorite crimson scarf, but these changes were too minute to largely adjust his appearance. His light hair, almost shoulder length and naturally curled, was in direct contrast with the short, oiled style of the bourgeoisie slime that his father usually associated with. 

Attempting to distract from this, Enjolras smiled gently; he had been informed by Courfeyrac that this could be quite charismatic, though he personally did not see how. “He assured me that it would be of greater convenience to him to meet here, seeing as the National Assembly building is currently undergoing maintenance work.” 

This touch of detail seemed to verify Enjolras’ story, and the butler nodded curtly. 

 _Thank god I read the paper this morning,_ Enjolras thought, heart hammering at his jugular. Frankly, he could not have cared less whether the National Assembly building had burnt to the ground, but the newspaper had deemed the story important enough to grant a small, front-page feature that he had been lucky enough to scan. 

“I shall inform Monsieur Praslin that you have arrived. Is there a name I may report to him?”  
  
Enjolras paused for a half-second before replying. “Tell him that Olivier is here, and that I am very keen to meet with him considering how long it has been since we convened in person.” 

The butler nodded again and disappeared behind the glossy door, leaving Enjolras loitering on the doorstep awkwardly. He was glad that ‘Olivier’ was a sufficiently common name that it had not flown up a red flag with the butler - Enjolras honestly had no idea whether the man would have let his employer’s runaway ghost of a son back into the family home – but he likewise hoped that his subtle jest had been enough to pique his father’s attention and grant them a meeting. Would he even suspect that his unexpected visitor was his own son? Enjolras did not put it past him to have forgotten that he had a son at all. Grantaire often joked about Enjolras being cold-hearted and distant, but his demeanour was positively sentimental compared to his father.

Much sooner than he had expected, the door was unlocked once again by the butler, who stood to the side and held it open.

“Monsieur Praslin will see you now, monsieur.” 

The house had hardly changed. The same ornate, antique furniture was to be found in the hall, along with an assortment of ugly oil portraits in gilded frames. As a child he had always hated the dark, sinister portraits with eyes that followed one constantly, and he found this to be a belief he had not outgrown.

When they reached the end of the hall, the butler opened the office door with a white-gloved hand, and suddenly the space beyond it seemed like Pandora’s box, with all the good and evil of the universe lurking inside. He smoothed his jacket, standing tall and unwavering, and stepped inside. 

Charles de Choiseul-Praslin was seated behind a heavy desk that was too lavish to be handsome, partially hidden behind a laptop that jarred with the traditional furnishings. He glanced up as his son entered, eyeing him almost inquisitively.

“Ah, so you aren’t dead after all.” he commented, as carelessly as if remarking on the weather.

 His appearance had barely changed in the five or so years since Enjolras had last seen him in person. The silver at his temples had spread a little more across his dark head, perhaps, but aside from that he was the same as ever – a clean-shaven square jaw, sardonic brows, thin lips, and all wrapped in an Italian two-piece. He was neither attractive for unattractive – Enjolras knew that his mother had married him for his money, not his looks – but he had none of the kindness of an ageing face, no sign of the benevolence of a man moving towards his senior years. He had a perpetually challenging look about him, as though ready for debate at any moment, and there was a subtle air of narcissism in his posture. But to Enjolras, it was his eyes that were the most dangerous, a too-familiar arctic blue. In every other aspect of his appearance Enjolras took after his mother – the bird-like build, golden curls, porcelain skin – and but for his eyes, he might have been able to avoid superficial association with his father altogether. That single shared trait, the identical eyes, meant that every glance in a mirror was a shocking reminder of a man he could do nothing but hate.

“No, I’m not.” Enjolras replied coldly, subduing any sign of surprise. “I suppose you thought me incapable of – “

“Not at all. If being a street rat were hard there wouldn’t be so many, now, would there? I figured you probably wouldn’t starve.”

“A street rat?” Enjolras replied, anger bubbling in his stomach.

“A rat sleeps in doorsteps and gutters. A rat eats from the trash, or steals. Can you look me in the face, Olivier, and tell me you have never done either?” 

“That’s not my name.” Enjolras spat, grinding his teeth, his cheek rouged with anger. “Not any more.”

“Oh?” Praslin said with amused surprise. “Well, whatever you call yourself these days – “ 

“Enjolras.”

“ - I shall tell you that I do not think much of your company.” Praslin continued seamlessly, smirking slightly. “Montparnasse, that prowling dandy of a criminal? I’d assumed you dead at his knife, if I’m to be truthful, and I see no reason to lie unduly.”

“You think Montparnasse… what, murdered me?” Enjolras laughed, dry. “His is a relationship of necessity, nothing more - a friend of a friend of a friend, shall I say, and a useful one at that. And besides, your spies are outdated, because I haven’t convened with Montparnasse in years.”

Praslin shrugged carelessly, examining manicured nails.

“Anyhow, the company I keep is generally a little more friendly, and a little less, uh, _lawless._ Though I hardly think that you are in a position to reproach criminals.”

It was unusual how easy it was to talk so flippantly with the man, easier by far than when he had lived under this roof. Perhaps Enjolras had matured, grown into the gangly limbs and found some courage and brains to match. Perhaps it was because he could now look his father in the eye without cringing. Either way, as long as he kept himself removed, his words sufficiently disdainful and quick, he could get out of this whole mess with exactly what he needed.

“Now, now. There’s no need for such discourtesy. We are simply chatting, are we not?” Praslin replied, taking a drag from his cigarette before crushing it in the crystal ashtray on the desk. The simple action set the hair on Enjolras’ arms standing, and he unconsciously tugged at the cuff of his sleeves. The scars had all but faded now, in any case, but it was hard to forget how they had been inflicted – small burns in the shape of perfect circles, scattered across his arms as if they were stars and his skin the night sky. 

“I have no wish to _chat_ with you.” Enjolras replied shortly. “I came here with one objective, and once it is fulfilled, I am leaving the same way I did five years ago, and I will never have anything to do with you and your foulness ever again.”

 Praslin cocked his head slightly. “Ah, well, we both know that’s not quite true, is it, Olivier?”

“Enjolras.”

 He seemed not to hear.

“You have come here, revealed yourself to the world once again. There will be no crawling back to your little hole now, no returning to whatever pathetic strays you’ve befriended.” Praslin’s lips curled into a humorless smirk, straightening the gold pens on his desk. “But this you knew when you came, and still you decided that your agenda was more important. So, why are you here?” 

Enjolras cleared his throat. “I am here to claim my inheritance. All of it.”

Praslin raised an eyebrow in skepticism. “Money? This is such a petty force driving you, Olivier. I thought finances were below you." 

“It’s Enjolras.” he repeated impatiently. “In any case, I have a requirement for some additional assistance, and there’s two million euros sitting in a family trust account with my name on it.” 

Praslin was about to speak when the alerting jingle of a cell phone cut him off. With a mockingly apologetic look he extracted it from his suit pocket, a motion with all the showmanship and rehearsed refinement of a stage actor. He glanced at the caller ID with an air of narcissistic disgruntlement that seemed to question who would have the audacity to interrupt him mid-speech. Enjolras, meanwhile, silently noted that the cell was the new Apple model he had heard Bossuet drooling over some days previously but unable to afford; his father’s could not have been a few weeks old. He was privately glad that his own battered old Nokia had been left at home. Enjolras had no wish to draw attention to the fact that his financial security had all but disappeared the day he walked out of the very house in which he now stood.

 _Not that I’d even think about regretting it,_ Enjolras added mentally. Even so, he couldn’t help but remembering how at ease he had been before he had the burden of rent, student debt, groceries and bills to fret over. He tried not to even think of Grantaire’s birthday the month previously, when Enjolras had been forced to neglect giving him a gift in order to attend to an already very overdue water bill. The shame of it still brought a creeping red to the tips of his ears, thankfully hidden beneath a head of golden curls.

Praslin dismissed the call, evidently deeming the caller unworthy of his time.

“Now, where were we?” he said with a small sigh, tucking the phone away. “Oh yes, the inheritance, your two million euros as you phrased it – well, if only there was.”

Enjolras could not dignify the remark with a response, and merely raised an eyebrow.

“Ah, well, that money is addressed to Olivier de Choiseul-Praslin, not _Enjolras_ , as you claim to be.” Praslin added, shrugging with an innocence that suited him poorly – a shark trying to act like a dolphin.  
  
“You are absurd, and a fool, if you think that such a trivial matter is in any way legally significant – “ Enjolras began, pale cheeks stained with an angry pink. 

“You wish to challenge me on the law?” Praslin interrupted. “I am a senator. I write the law.”

“You can’t prevent me from claiming the money, once I’m of age, which I am.” Enjolras returned indignantly. 

“You are quite right, I can’t prevent my son from claiming the inheritance.” he conceded. “But how am I to know that you are my son?”  
  
Enjolras spluttered in angered confusion. “What the hell are you trying to – “

“My son has been missing for, what, five years? He was sixteen when he ran away, a child. You are a young man. How much can someone’s appearance change in that time? How am I to know for certain that you are my son? You could be some ruffian off the streets of the 18th arrondissement, for all I know.”

 “I am a ruffian from 18th! But I’m also your son, as you know well and truly. You are no idiot, no matter how fluently you act the part.” Enjolras snapped scathingly. “This is not negotiable. I know you have the paperwork, and I demand you give it to me.” 

“Your demands are pointless. The law permits me to withhold the account if your identity is in doubt, and I am afraid it is.”

 “I’ll take a paternity test.” Enjolras blurted out desperately.

“I refuse.” Praslin replied immediately, as if anticipating his suggestion before he had even said it.

“You can’t, you have to – “ 

“I have to take the test?” Praslin finished, with a short peal of laughter. “What are you going to do, forcibly take my blood for testing? Bodily autonomy exists for a reason, monsieur. It is a human right, or so I hear.” 

Enjolras scoffed loudly, his lip curling. “I did not know you to be such an advocate for human rights.”

“Then it seems we both are full of surprises.” Praslin stated with light carelessness, before his tone turned cold. “Now get out of my house.”

“You can’t – “

“Don’t you have a bin to rummage through, street rat?” he asked, with a light roll of the eyes, as he straightened the gold pens on his desk. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”  
  
A butler had appeared at the doorway, his stocky physique evident beneath his penguin suit. _One of his thugs,_ Enjolras thought grimly, allowing himself to be steered from the room before the scene descended into violence. 

He could all but feel his father’s smugness, the snide expression that must be on his face as he once again dominated the situation. Irate and downtrodden, Enjolras took a sudden swipe at the crystal decanter sitting by the doorway, but took only a very small amount of satisfaction in the sound of it smashing on the floorboards. The harsh smell of spilt whiskey filtered through the air as he stalked down the hall.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update, is this a newfound sign of regularity and reliability? Hell yes, it is. If you're enjoying the story so far, please subscribe, comment, or share with a friend! Thanks all.

When Grantaire heard Enjolras’ keys jingling in the lock, he quickly screwed the lid onto the bottle of spirits he’d been working with and stuffed it down the side of the couch. He smiled angelically as Enjolras swung open the door.

“How’d it go, m’sieur?” Grantaire asked brightly.

Enjolras gave him a dead look, groaned with resign, and tore off his coat so violently that one of the buttons broke loose and flung across the living room.

“Well, that’s good to know.” Grantaire said in way of reply.

 Enjolras collapsed back onto the couch, the neck of the bottle jabbing into his back. He pulled it out with an accusatory glare.

 “It’s for cleaning paintbrushes.” Grantaire began quickly.

 The man stalked wordlessly into the kitchen, and for a moment Grantaire decided to give him some space. A moment later, he heard the gush of liquid being poured.

 “No, wait!” Grantaire cried, his voice cracking like a teenager. “That bottle cost me thirty – oh.”

 Enjolras was slumped over a generously poured glass of gin at the table in the kitchen, his face hidden amid a tangle of blond curls. He took a disdainful sniff, and promptly downed half the glass in one slug.

 “Since when do you drink gin?” he asked, coarse and rasping.

 “Since when do you _drink?”_ Grantaire returned. Enjolras gave him a look that could peel paint. “Nah, it just was on sale, that’s all. What’s your verdict?”

 Enjolras held up a finger – _wait one moment –_ and gulped the rest of the glass.

 "It tastes like gasoline.” he decided, his cheeks blotchily rouged.

 The hypocrisy of the situation was overwhelming – how many times had Enjolras flown into a rage over his drinking, no matter the circumstances? He was too smart to say a word, or perhaps too much of a coward. Grantaire bit his tongue and let Enjolras fill up his glass.

 “Say it.” Enjolras mumbled, sloshing the liquid carelessly back and forth, long fingers wrapped around the tumbler.

 “I don’t think I need to.” Grantaire returned bluntly. “Besides, you’re not a child, and I’m not your babysitter. You can do whatever you like, I won’t stop you.”

 Enjolras lip curled into a snarl that managed to twist his perfect features into the grotesque. Under his breath ran a string of low words as swift and dangerous as an icy river. Grantaire dove in.

 “What happened? What did he say?” he asked gently, pulling out the seat beside him.

 His boyfriend shook his head. “He won’t have it. He’s going to fight it. I should have expected it, I’m an idiot for even going, because now he knows I’m alive and he can follow me and god knows what, but he’s going to fight it. And it wasn’t even him, though he hasn’t changed a bit, it was being back there, in that awful house, it’s as if I was trapped back there again and I couldn’t think of anything but the bloody cigarette burns and – “

 He broke off, snatching up the pitifulness just as it had come rushing out. Even with his defenses lowered, he was too proud to let himself falter any further. He took a shaky breath, and pushed the glass away.

 “It’s all for nothing now, anyway. He won’t give me the paperwork until he knows for sure I’m his son, and he can’t know I’m his son until he does a paternity test, and he refuses.” Enjolras babbled, shrugging. “So it’s over, the ABC, it’s all done.”

Grantaire was silent, his hand circling on Enjolras’ back absentmindedly. He shrank away from it, flinching as if struck.

 “I need to get some air.” he gasped, shooting to his feet. A moment later Grantaire heard the door slam. 

The remaining man picked up the glass of gin and walked it back into the living room, placing it on the spindly table besides his easel. In one motion he deftly picked up the dirty paintbrushes lying on the palette and dropped them into the gin.

Grantaire was many things. Brave enough to lie to Enjolras’ face was not one of them.

 

~ # ~ # ~ # ~

 

Enjolras had made the trip to Combeferre’s apartment so many times that he was halfway there before he realized where his legs were taking him. The path was etched in his mind like some road to salvation: two blocks south, a left turn, then three blocks until he hit the student apartment block. A five-block walk to sanity. He could make it in seven or so minutes, he knew – five at a brisk pace. Today he was walking briskly.

With every tread of worn Converse on Parisian sidewalk, Enjolras cursed himself for leaving so abruptly. He had sat through enough of Jehan’s poetry readings to know that it was Grantaire he should be going to for advice. By any account his boyfriend should be the one propping him up, not Combeferre. Guilt gnawed at the pit of his stomach as he imagined Grantaire back in the apartment, left behind in the wake, no doubt fully aware that his boyfriend had just gone running to the metaphorical arms of another man.

 _Grantaire knows it isn’t like that,_ he tried to reason, but a large chunk of him doubted it. Even if Grantaire knew for certain that his intentions could not be further from romantic, would it make a difference? Enjolras realized fully that his actions screamed one message, loud and clear: “however much I love you, I still value him more.” 

No matter how much he hated leaving that apartment, and resented the way that jealousy and bitterness kept Grantaire from being anything but cordial with ‘Ferre, still he walked those five blocks as reflexively as pulling a hand away from a flame.

 _Old habits don’t just die hard_ , he decided, _but painfully too._

In what felt like an instant he was at Combeferre’s door, knocking – four times, always four times with ‘Ferre. He opened it, eyebrows raised above the rim of his glasses.

 “Is it a bad time?” Enjolras asked, panting slightly.

 “No, never. I was just finishing Lamarque’s essay.” Combeferre replied, surveying him with concern. “Come in.”

 Enjolras closed the door behind him, slipping off his shoes by the door out of habit – it saved Combeferre mopping as soon as he left.

 “What’s the crisis?” he asked, closing up his books and neatly piling them on the end of the coffee table.

 Enjolras waved his arms about like a baby bird trying to take off, his throat suddenly too tight for words. Combeferre cocked his head sympathetically, grabbing him by the shirtsleeve and leading him towards the couch.

 “I shouldn’t even be here, I should be with Grantaire.” he mumbled, falling back onto the cushions as if finishing a marathon.

“Yes, you should.” Combeferre returned bluntly; Enjolras looked up in surprise. “What? I’m not in the habit of lying.”

 Enjolras groaned, a low, guttural grunt considerably less attractive than any noise he would dare make in front of Grantaire.

 “Look, you know me well enough that I don’t even have to tell you what I think.” Combeferre said, palms held up and open in earnest. “All I’ll say on the topic is: give Grantaire a chance.”  
  
“A chance to what? Play the role of my emotional crutch? What a privilege that would be.” he grumbled sarcastically. 

“A chance to see you at your worst for once.” Combeferre returned, as always, more gentle than Enjolras deserved. “It’s no wonder the man thinks you’re some sort of god.”  
  
It was moments like these when Enjolras regretted having a skin tone so pale that it showed any sign of blush, no matter how subtle.

“And don’t get me wrong, you’re not too shabby really,” Combeferre added wryly, smirking slightly. “But it’s not… uh… a _sustainable_ way to run a relationship. Shit, I think I just broke my personal manifesto about not giving romantic advice to other people. I’m sorry.”

“If anyone needs the advice, it’s me, so don’t apologize.” Enjolras replied reassuringly. “You’re right, though, of course. I am, literally, the world’s shittiest boyfriend.”  
__  
“Literally?” Combeferre teased.  
  
“Literally.”  
  
“I don’t know, I’d hazard a guess and say you’re a pretty good kisser.”  
  
“Must be all of that practice finally kicking in.” Enjolras replied, rolling his eyes, but his chest shook slightly with laughter. “Anyway, oddly enough I didn’t come here to talk about my love life: I have a dilemma.”

“Is it about this Choiseul-Praslin character?” Combeferre asked pointedly.

Enjolras’ eyes widened – a doe in headlights.

“I didn’t wish to pry, but you’re a terrible actor, and the moment I mentioned his name you went as pale as a sheet.” ‘Ferre continued apologetically. “I figured you must know him, or know of him at least, so I dropped the issue – “  
  
“’Ferre, he’s my father.”

Combeferre clasped both hands over his mouth, eyes scanning Enjolras for some sign of jest or ruse.

 “Enjolras, I am so sorry,” he mumbled through his fingers. “I shouldn’t have insulted him so overtly like that, I’m so – “  
  
“No, no, that’s not the problem at all.” Enjolras cut in, with a noise more akin to a bark than a laugh. “He’s everything you say he is and worse, and if I had my way I would never have to see him again in my life. But unfortunately, I don’t always get my way.”

“Oh, Enjolras, I don’t even know what to say.” Combeferre moaned quietly, reappearing from behind his hands. “It had never even struck me that your parents might still be alive. It’s so awful that I never asked, I just thought that you were orphaned or something of that nature, and I didn’t want to touch a nerve, so…”  
  
“No, they’re both very much alive.” he said with a short nod. _Regretfully,_ he almost added, but bit his tongue.

“So your mother too? What about her?” Combeferre asked keenly.

“I haven’t spoken to her in years. She’s a fashion designer, so she was always abroad when I was growing up anyway.” he answered with a shrug. “She’s probably off living in Milan now, screwing any attractive young butler she can get her hands on. Unless she’s changed drastically, which I doubt.”

“Oh god, Enjolras, I don’t know what to say.” Combeferre said, his voice just short of a whisper.

“There’s nothing to say. I hadn’t heard from or seen either of them in years, not since I ran away - “

“Wait, you – “  
  
“Ran away? Yes, but it’s a topic for another day.” Enjolras said nonchalantly, waving his arms. “Anyway, there was no problem with my arrangement until suddenly I found out that the ABC had financial problems. And I have a two million euro inheritance to my name.”

 “Enjolras, what the fuck are you talking about?” Combeferre burst out, so loudly that there were instant ‘sssshh’ noises from the apartment next door. He continued in a lower voice: “You have to be kidding. You actually must be joking.”

“’Ferre, I can’t access a cent.” Enjolras sighed, running his hands through his hair nervously. “That’s the problem, you see. The money is mine to claim, once I prove that I am who I say I am. But I’ve been on the run for so long that no one can verify, and my illustrious father refuses to partake in a paternity test.”

“So you’re telling me,” Combeferre began, getting increasingly louder in his restlessness. “That you could have your hands on _two million euros_ if you could get your father to help confirm you are, in fact, a Choiseul-Praslin.”

 “Yes, but he’ll never agree to it.” Enjolras returned impatiently.

 “Of course not, but don’t you see? He doesn’t have to _agree_ to it.” Combeferre said gleefully.

 “I will not compromise my ethical integrity by breaching bodily autonomy, not even his.” Enjolras snapped. “How could I ever face myself again if I’d overlooked consent for monetary gain? Besides, only _consensual_ paternity tests are allowed to be used in legal contexts.”

 Combeferre bounced to his feet, his face that of a child on Christmas morning. He began pacing back and forth.

 “You’re correct, of course that’s true, but you don’t need the paternity test to be acceptable in a courtroom. All you need is for it to be acceptable to a tabloid newspaper.” he said, a menacing grin spreading wide across his face.


	9. Chapter 9

Over the next few weeks, Enjolras found it even more difficult than usual to keep his mind focused on his studies. It was not a novel issue. He was perpetually overcommitted to the ABC, and transitional calendar events – social gatherings, appointments, and, as in this instance, family crises – only increased his difficulty in meeting deadlines and finishing papers. After all, it was difficult to concentrate on the semester of European economics he was being forced to take when he had the ABC’s treasury rapidly declining into non-existence.

  _“Why on earth do I have to take economics? I’m a political science major.” Enjolras had asked, scanning the term’s timetable in despair._

_Combeferre looked up from his own, unsympathetically shrugging. “Capitalism.”_

To add further humiliation to the state of affairs, the Amis had taken to subtly topping up the ABC’s budget out of their own initiative. Combeferre would often procure ‘anonymous donations’, their envelopes marked with familiar, scrawling handwriting; Bossuet had convinced his manager at Musain to set up a secondary tips jar purely for the ABC; at the beginning of a meeting last week Bahorel has approached Enjolras handed him a crumpled bundle of fifty euro banknotes. Upon inquiries, the money was attributed to “winning a dart competition”, though Feuilly’s overenthusiastic and evidently prompted nodding make Enjolras more than a little suspicious about its real origins. Most horrifyingly, on his way home from university Enjolras had stumbled across Courfeyrac busking near the metro station (“I’m not doing it for you, Enjolras, I’m doing it because the people of Paris need show tunes to brighten their daily commute”).

 Worst of all was Grantaire, who had indefinitely put on hold his own artistic agenda, instead favouring the lazy Impressionist imitations that would be most likely sell at the touristy riverside markets. Enjolras could see his dissatisfaction when Grantaire sat up in the evenings, dabbing away at a cheesy Parisian scene, grinding his teeth incessantly. His palette was filled with sky blues, a colour Enjolras knew him to find unbearable.

 “Are you quite sure your normal work wouldn’t sell, R?” he asked tentatively, picking up one of the dried canvases that lined the walls and eyeing it with skepticism. “I mean, these are lovely I suppose, but surely even a tourist would rather a proper piece of upcoming French art than another picture of the Tour Eiffel…”  
  
Grantaire shrugged, without looking away from his work in progress.

 “I know, I know, these new paintings are pathetic, but they put food on the table and posters on the walls of Paris, so they’re serving their purpose.”

 Enjolras groaned, wrapping his arms around Grantaire from behind. “But it’s your artistic credibility on the line, isn’t it? No one would have taken Salvador Dali seriously if he’d spent half his career selling paintings of bulls to tourists.”  
  
“Firstly, no one took Salvador Dali very seriously in any case.” Grantaire interjected with a smirk. “And secondly, it’s not like I have very much credibility to ruin. I’d hardly call my art career up until now successful, so I promise you I’m not putting anything on hold so that the ABC can go hold up traffic.”

 “But – “  
  
“Enjolras. Please. You’re killing me.”

 Enjolras withdrew his arms from around Grantaire and fell back onto the couch, rubbing his eyes.

 “Okay, I have a question, and I promise it’s not about your art.”  
  
Grantaire mumbled a ‘yes’ through the paintbrush in his mouth as he leaned back to survey his canvas.

 “Do you think there’s such a thing as ‘the greater good’, or is it just an excuse to compromise moral integrity?” Enjolras asked, staring up at the ceiling and crossing his arms across his chest.

 Grantaire, with some difficulty, laughed, and plucked the paintbrush back into his hand to free his mouth.

 “I think it depends on what the compromise is, and how important the sacrifice,” he answered pensively, lightly feathering at a cloud in the corner of the frame.

 “The compromise would, in this entirely hypothetical scenario, be breaking and entering, or conspiring to do so, along with theft and the illegal acquisition of genetic material. Oh, and maybe defamation,” Enjolras added almost as an afterthought.

 “But you said that the DNA tests won’t stand up in court unless your dad consents to them, so why would you bother with all of that mess?”  
  
“That’s the thing, that’s the beautiful thing. I don’t need the tests to stand in court.” Enjolras replied with mounting excitement. “I only need them to stand in a national newspaper.”

 Grantaire raised an untamed eyebrow. “Did Combeferre suggest this?”  
  
“Yep.”  
  
“Now I’m really worried.” Grantaire mumbled, before adding in a questioning tone. “So you want to break into your father’s house, steal some DNA, have it tested against yours and then break the story to the tabloids, so that…”  
  
“So that public pressure forces him into releasing the inheritance.” Enjolras finished.

 Grantaire set down his palette and dunked his brush into the nearby glass of gin.

 “Look, Enjolras, you know I’m never going to encourage something that might get you arrested, and this almost certainly will.” he began tersely. “Even if it all succeeds – which seems improbable at best – you’ll still probably be charged with burglary and all the rest of it.”  
  
Enjolras sat up, his keenness fading from his expression.

 “Plus the tabloids will chew you up and spit you out.” Grantaire went on. “ _‘Politician’s son reappears years after runaway, with boyfriend and vigilante group in tow’_? They’ll have a field day. Any shred of privacy you ever had will disappear, and mine with it. Maybe even our friends’, too.”

 “I know it seems rash, but – “  
  
“Did I say I was done? No, _Olivier,_ I did not.” Grantaire interrupted, making a bright blush appear on Enjolras’ cheeks, as he turned away from his canvas to face him. “It’s a risk, for sure, doing all of this in the hope that it might turn out okay. But… I think you should do it.”

 Enjolras’ jaw fell a little ajar, an uncharacteristic loss of composure and balance that made Grantaire’s heart flutter.   
  
“Or rather, we should do it. All of us, the whole ABC working together.” Grantaire amended thoughtfully. “If it fails, then it can be our last hurrah. But if it succeeds, it’s the beginning of a whole new phase, isn’t it?”

 “We could do so much with that money, ‘Taire.” Enjolras groaned, almost erotically. “Two million euros? We’ve never had two _thousand_ euros and look at the change we’ve made, the laws we’ve lobbied for, the awareness we’ve raised in Paris. That money could put us on the map in France, in Europe even.”  
  
“And it could pay our rent.” Grantaire added.

 Enjolras laughed. “I mean, yeah, it could do that too I guess.”

 Grantaire reached out for Enjolras’ hand and squeezed it, a brief, reassuring jab of affection.

 “So when are we doing this?”

  _We_ are not doing anything.” Enjolras said, his smile fading fast. “There’s no way I’m going to get you involved in anything criminal, that’s absurd.”  
  
“You’re studying politics, you want to work in that sector, you can’t be going around with burglary on your record.” Grantaire retorted. “An artist with a record is of no consequence. Your career would be over before it starts.”

 “Grantaire…” Enjolras said warningly.

 “Hey, it probably won’t even matter, because we’re not going to get caught. But if something goes wrong, you can’t afford the fall. You know you can’t.” Grantaire reasoned. “Besides, I stole cigarettes all through high school, I’m pretty experienced at these things you know.”  
  
Enjolras shoved Grantaire playfully. “You’re a monster.”  
  
“I know, but you love me anyway.”

 

~ # ~ # ~ # ~

 

The kitchen table of Grantaire and Enjolras’ apartment had been used to plan plenty of rallies and meetings, but never before had it been used to carefully coordinate a burglary.

 Using Enjolras’ memory of the house and the semester of architectural drawing classes Grantaire took in his first year, they managed to painstakingly plot out the house and its exits. Enjolras tried his best to recall the position of each security camera, and between his recent visit and his childhood recollections, he was fairly sure that their maps were comprehensive.

 As for preparing Grantaire’s paths of entry and exit, Combeferre turned out to be scarily useful when it came to criminal activity.

  _“Didn’t you say the living room has floorboards, Enjolras? No, he should go through the kitchen, the tiles will make less sound.”_

_“I suppose we could dress him in black, but I personally think a suit would be a better choice. It’s still a dark enough color to avoid being seen, but in case he is, the neighbors won’t think of him as anything but another butler. Plus with white gloves, there’ll be no fingerprints left around.”_

_“And of course, Grantaire can’t come back here right away, if he’s being followed he’ll lead the police straight to his apartment. I’ll arrange for Bossuet to be working that night at Musain, you can cut through the kitchens, that’ll make sure you’re safe and alone.”_

“Combeferre, did you ever consider white collar crime as a career option?” Grantaire asked incredulously one evening, following a few hours of wine and plotting.  
  
“Naturally, yes." Combeferre answered with a smirk. Courfeyrac’s eyes were wide and lovestruck.

 “Bad boy kink?” Grantaire interjected pointedly, exchanging an amused glance with Enjolras.

 A blush hazed across Courfeyrac’s bronze cheeks, and he waved his hands as if to beckon them back to work.

 “This could be a stupid question,” he began hesitantly, “But is there a reason we’re not just paying Montparnasse to do all this?”

 “Apart from the fact that he is the living embodiment of ‘shadiness’?” Enjolras replied shortly. “No, he’s inadvertently become too involved in this already. When I went to see my father, he already knew about Montparnasse. It obviously must have been from when I ran away, but even so – “  
  
“How did you get involved with that creep, anyway?” Grantaire asked, frowning.

 “Feuilly introduced us, back when he caught me sleeping in his doorway a couple of months after I left home. Montparnasse helped me fake all my documents – you know, birth certificate, national identity number, high school diploma, and so on.” Enjolras listed them nonchalantly, as if secret identities and faked documents were perfectly ordinary and commonplace. “I could never have signed up for university under my real name, of course, but nor could I do it without all the proper bureaucracy. I spent every cent I had paying him for the job, not that I had very many cents to begin with admittedly, and even then Feuilly had to give me a loan.”

 Courfeyrac shook his head. “And I thought trying to teach my _abuela_ French was the biggest struggle of human history.”

 “The first few weeks were astoundingly shit,” Enjolras conceded, and Grantaire believed him; Enjolras rarely swore, and never without occasion. “Without Feuilly, I might have died of exposure come winter. But he saw me scavenging around Montmartre a few times, while he was selling his fans inbetween deployments, and so when he caught me at his front door he took me in. I guess he knew I needed it.”

 “You paid him back though, and not just financially,” Combeferre reasoned.

 “When the guy that saved you from homelessness goes off to war and comes home blind, you’d have to be a fairly massive bastard not to stick around and help him out.” Enjolras replied a little coolly. “You don’t have to be some sort of social justice ninja warrior for that.”

“Does it help that you are? A social justice ninja warrior, that is.” Grantaire asked, playfully nudging Enjolras’ side. In return, he swooped in for a kiss, his slender fingers running up the back of Grantaire’s shirt.

“I like to think of myself as more of a social justice spokesperson.” Enjolras mumbled into his lips. “It’s less militaristic than ‘ninja warrior’." 

Courfeyrac cleared his throat as they broke it apart. “Shall we call it a night?”

“I think so.” Combeferre agreed, hastily neatening his papers and linking arms with Courfeyrac as they hurriedly showed themselves out.

Grantaire glanced around, blinking in shock.

“If I’d known a little snogging could break up a meeting that quickly, we’d kiss in front of those two much more often.”

"I hope _those two_ don't have to be around for us to kiss often." Enjolras purred in reply, leaning purposefully back towards Grantaire.


	10. Chapter 10

Enjolras took the stairs two at a time as he raced to class, glancing at his watch. While he even couldn’t pretend to be upset at Grantaire for keeping him up late, but he did wish he hadn’t overslept; he craved Professor Lamarque’s approval like he craved air, and he only had a few hours a week in which to prove himself.

“Enjolras!”  
  
He almost dropped his books as a human mountain stepped in front of him, and he reared up hastily.

“Bahorel, _salut!_ Um, what’s up?” Enjolras asked breathily. Though Bahorel was only a shade taller than him, if at all, he had the thickset build of a heavyweight boxer that made him feel like a toothpick by comparison – a fact he was instantly reminded of with the man hovering a few inches in front of him.

“When did you last hear from Feuilly?” Bahorel asked, never one to waste time with niceties or small talk.

“A few days ago, at the last meeting – Wednesday, I guess. Why, is something wrong?”

Bahorel let go of a long, shaky breath. “He was meant to be spending all of yesterday painting fans in his studio, but I decided to surprise him after training and he wasn’t there. He hasn’t been home either, I asked the doorman and he said he hasn’t seen him.”

“Wait, you’re saying he’s missing?” Enjolras asked, heart racing.

“Yes, of course that’s what I’m saying _, what sort of idiots get accepted into this place?!”_ Bahorel finished the sentence in a snarl, making several passing freshman jump or avert his gaze. 

“Look, just calm down, or campus security will have you out.” Enjolras murmured.

 Bahorel ran his hands through his hair, tousling his bun so that large chunks of hair fell loose.

 “I’m sorry, I’m sorry Enjolras, but I just don’t know what to do, I don’t know where he is?! I know you’re busy but – “  
  
“It’s not a worry at all, I’m glad you found me. Come with me back to the apartment, I’ll get together as many of the Amis as I can and we’ll start a full-scale search. Police stations, hospitals, and we can have a few people scour your block just in case, too.”  
  
“You don’t mind missing class?” Bahorel asked, watching classroom doors swing shut as the halls emptied.

 Enjolras glared at him and Bahorel threw his hands up defensively.

 “Let’s go.”

 Fifteen minutes later, Bahorel was seated on the beaten up couch nursing a generous glass of whisky (courtesy of Grantaire), while Enjolras paced up and down the hallway making phone calls in an urgent, hushed tone.

 “Are you quite sure, monsieur? Yes, Feuilly, F – E – U – I – double L – Y. It’s very important that – no? Thank you for your time.”

 “No luck?” Grantaire murmured, holding out a glass of whisky, which to his surprise Enjolras took and drained in one gulp, handing back the empty glass.

 “I’ve tried all the major hospitals in the area, no one has seen him.” Enjolras replied, his voice slipping into double-time. “Did you try the police?”

 “Nothing.”

 Enjolras groaned, quietly enough that Bahorel wasn’t alerted to it in the next room over.

 “I don’t understand, how could he just go missing? I’ve left messages on his phone, I’ve talked to all the Amis and none of them have seen him in a day and a half, it just doesn’t make sense. Do you think – “ Enjolras lowered his voice even more, “ – he’s been hurt somehow?”  
  
Grantaire shrugged lightly, at a loss. “It’s possible, but surely _someone_ would have seen _something._ Paris is so bloody patrolled, it’s not possible that a grown man could go missing and have no one batter an eyelid.”  
  
“He’s just so vulnerable to this sort of thing.” Enjolras despaired. “I mean he’d never know if someone was coming, they could just – “  
  
“If Feuilly were here, he’d punch you for calling him vulnerable.” Grantaire warned. “Well, he wouldn’t, but Bahorel might.”

 “It’s true.” Enjolras seethed. “I’m not being anything but pragmatic here.”  
  
“Um, guys?” Bahorel called, drawing Enjolras and Grantaire back into the living room.

 "What’ve you found?” Enjolras pressed.

 He shook his head, eyes blank. “I’ve tried calling him but it goes straight through to voicemail, the battery must be flat or something. How about you two?”

 Enjolras’ shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, Bahorel, but – “

 “We’re working on it.” Grantaire cut across, staring daggers at his boyfriend. “I’m just about to make a call to the police again, I’ve got a good feeling about this so don’t panic yet, yeah? Good man. Okay, back in a moment.”

 He walked out of the room dialing, leaving Enjolras with a wrecked Bahorel.

 “Thank you for all of this.” he babbled. “I’m completely useless, the only way I know how to solve problems is with my fists and that doesn’t seem to be very handy right now.”  
  
“We’ll find him soon, don’t worry.” Enjolras replied, taking after Grantaire with a (very fake) optimistic air. “This city isn’t so big, and we know it better than anyone. And maybe you will be able to use those fists, when we find out exactly what’s going on.”

 Bahorel gave a weak grin.

 “Hey, Enjolras? I just managed to get myself on hold with someone with the _police nationale_ , can you grab me a pen and some paper?”

 Enjolras rushed into the kitchen to fulfill his request, lingering to overhear the conversation.

 “Hello monsieur, I’m sorry, I wasn’t given your name? Of course, no, I don’t need to know your name. Look, I just want to know if you’ve heard anything about my friend, his name is Yves Feuilly, and – wait, really?”  
  
Grantaire began scribbling furiously at the paper.

 “Monsieur, I cannot thank you enough. Yes. Yes, thank you. Good day, monsieur.”

 He glanced up at Enjolras, holding the pad of paper tightly.

 “I think I may have found him.”

 A few moments later Enjolras, Grantaire and Bahorel were crammed in the elevator, rattling down to ground level as Grantaire frantically searched the address he had written down.

 “Damn it, why couldn’t it be the top end of Rue Saint-Denis?” Grantaire grumbled.

 “Where are we going?” Bahorel asked, squashed uncomfortably between Enjolras and the grate.

 “Some dead-end street that meets Saint-Denis, in 2nd. Apparently, according to my nameless friend at the national police, Feuilly should be there within the hour.”  
  
“How in the hell does he know that?!” Bahorel asked. “And why didn’t the cops tell you that the first time you called?”  
  
“We can ask Feuilly that when we find him.” Enjolras proposed, carving his way through other pedestrians.

 The intersection was only a few metro stops and a short walk away, but heading into the metropolis of central Paris slowed them overwhelmingly. The footpaths were blocked everywhere by meandering tourists and prancing couples enjoying the sun. Bahorel pushed through both groups without remorse or apology.

“Come on!” he grunted back at Enjolras and Grantaire, both in a sweat, following the map on his mobile phone with feverous enthusiasm. 

Enjolras mind raced as much as his legs. Why on earth had Feuilly come to this corner in such an absurd part of the city? Had he arrived here by his choosing at all? It had all come about so suddenly, and so very inconveniently; they had planned to break into Praslin’s home just the next day, an event which looked unlikely to occur in the light of Feuilly’s mysterious disappearance. Not that he minded, of course – he’d go to the ends of the earth for Feuilly, without giving it a moment’s thought – but he worried for what the turbulence would do to Grantaire’s nerves. After all, it was he, not Enjolras, who was risking the most in this whole business.

“Is this it?” Bahorel asked, suddenly pulling up on a less populous and distinctly seedy street corner. Grantaire stopped next to him, glancing at his piece of paper and then up at the street signs.

“Yep, this is the address he gave us.” he confirmed. “I guess now we’ve just got to wait. Bahorel, maybe you could head across the road, in case he comes from that direction?”

Bahorel obeyed immediately, and Enjolras sidled up next to Grantaire, scanning the patches of people for the familiar face.

 “Who did give you the address, anyway?” Enjolras asked.

 “I have no idea. I called the police once, and they didn’t want a bar of it. All but hung up on me.” Grantaire explained. “The second time I explained the situation to the receptionist and she sounded sorry for me, so she put me through to someone else, who put me through to their superior, and then they gave me some national police number. No name to go along with it, just the number. And he told me that he’d be here.” 

“And that’s it?” Enjolras asked skeptically.

 “Yep, that’s it.” Grantaire confirmed, shrugging. “The guy made some remark along the lines of ‘I’ve been in this job too long to be bought out’, whatever that means.”  
  
Frowning, Enjolras returned to scanning the street.  
  
“Some place, huh?” he muttered, taking in the surrounds – a liquor store and a tobacconist, several closed roller-shutters covered in graffiti tags, a filthy souvenir shop, a chain fast food restaurant whose front window was held together with tape, and several too-young women that Enjolras was sure were soliciting themselves. “I thought we only had corners this inviting in 18th.”  
  
“Welcome to the city of lights.” Grantaire laughed quietly.

 A few minutes passed in silence, with the three men scanning the street in what must have appeared (Enjolras realized) a highly suspicious manner.

 “What’s the time?” Enjolras asked. “He should be here.”

 Grantaire pulled out his phone. “It’s almost sixteen-hundred hours. Any second now.”

 “He should be here. The address must be wrong, or we’re in the wrong place, or that guy just lied to you, because – “  
  
“Will you shut up for _one second?!”_ Grantaire snapped. “That’s him over there, look!”  
  
But Bahorel had already spotted the mop of red curls across the way, and dashed out in front several vehicles and their terrified drivers. Enjolras and Grantaire were only slightly more cautious, waiting for a break in the traffic to jog across the intersection.

 “Feuilly!” Bahorel panted from a few feet away, reaching out to lightly grab his forearm. Feuilly started and snatched his arm back, shocked, only processing the situation a moment later.

 "Bahorel?” Feuilly said slowly, tentatively, turning to where he had heard the voice.

 Bahorel, swallowing some sort of dry sob, leapt forwards like an overly energetic puppy and firmly pressed his lips against Feuilly’s, one of his hands tangling in his hair.

 “Where the _fuck_ were you?” Bahorel asked when he pulled away, and Enjolras and Grantaire pulled up beside them.

 “I’m fine, thank you, love.” Feuilly replied sarcastically, though a glance at him proved this to be a lie. The freckles on his cheeks stood out even more glaringly than usual, and the dark tint of his glasses juxtaposed his deathly pale cheeks.

 “Where am I?”  
  
“Rue Saint-Denis, down in the 2nd arrondissement. We are currently on an extremely dodgy street corner, incidentally.” Grantaire piped up, making Feuilly start again. “Sorry, sorry, it’s R here.”  
  
“Yes, I know that now.” Feuilly replied shakily. “Anyone else joined the welcoming party?”  
  
“Feuilly, thank god you’re alright. You are, aren’t you – alright, that is?” Enjolras rushed, scanning him from head to toe.

 “Enjolras? Yes, um, I’m fine.” he replied shakily. “Just a rough night, that’s all. I’m not the biggest fan of new environments.”

 “What happened?” Bahorel pressed, his hands travelling up and down Feuilly’s body as if making sure he was really there.

 “I, uh, I don’t really…” Feuilly stammered airily.

 “We can talk this through later, let’s just get him home before he faints, yes?” Grantaire suggested, and Enjolras immediately strode to the edge of the footpath and began attempting to hail a cab. Bahorel, meanwhile, scooped Feuilly up with ease into a bridal carry, despite being battered by weak blows from his disgruntled boyfriend.

 “This is ridiculous.” he protested tiredly. “I bet people are staring – they are, aren’t they? Bahorel you’re making a spectacle of – “

 “Cab’s here, all in!” Grantaire interrupted brightly. Bahorel gently placed Feuilly in the back seat, before he and the others piled into the cab. Grantaire prompted the driver with Feuilly and Bahorel’s address, and they merged back into the traffic.

 “Where’s your cane?” Enjolras asked, suddenly realizing its absence.

 “Lost it. Well, no. They took it.” Feuilly replied, speaking in exhausted, short sentences.

 Enjolras opened his mouth as if to pursue further, but Feuilly’s head bobbled and he slumped to rest on Bahorel’s shoulder.

 “Is he okay?” Grantaire asked, glancing over his shoulder into the back seat.

 “Just asleep, I think.” Bahorel replied, whispering for the first time in living memory.

 “I’ll text Combeferre and get him to borrow a cane from the hospital.” Enjolras muttered, pulling out his phone and punching away at it fiercely. A moment later the reply came through. “He says he’ll drop it by your place when he finishes his shift tonight.”

 Bahorel nodded, his arm around Feuilly’s shoulders.

 "Thank you. Both of you.” he said quietly, glancing from Enjolras to Grantaire.

 “It’s nothing.” Enjolras replied, and Grantaire nodded in enthusiastic agreement.

 “Do you want us to stay the night? You’re both a bit shaken, it might take the pressure off if you have someone else around to cook and so forth…” Grantaire suggested. “Plus it can be like a double-date slumber party.”

Bahorel snorted. “That sounds great. Just don’t let Enjolras cook, please, for the love of god.”


	11. Chapter 11

Feuilly slept undisturbed through until the morning, alongside an almost equally drained Bahorel. In the absence of a guest bedroom, Enjolras accepted the sofa, whilst Grantaire resigned to the puffiest armchair.

 “Come share with me.” Enjolras whispered from amongst the cushions, in a sleep-dazzled haze.

 “One of us will fall off for sure, and seeing as I’m the little spoon I think it’ll be me.” Grantaire mumbled wryly in reply, making his way over to the couch nonetheless.

 “I promise I won’t wriggle.” Enjolras mumbled into his ear, curling up against Grantaire’s bag and snuggling into his shoulder.

 “You’re a damn liar.” Grantaire chuckled woozily, drifting off.

 They woke with the sun through the unclosed curtains, and set to preparing breakfast for their hosts as promised. At the smell of coffee – the one simple task entrusted to Enjolras – the pair drifted out into the kitchen. Bahorel and Feuilly were not only holding hands but were almost wrapped around each other, as if trying to catch up on missed time over the last few days.

“Good morning, chef – and kitchenhand.” Feuilly added, grinning.

“I hope you mean him.” Enjolras mock-threatened, before softening the tone and handing him a mug of coffee. “How’re you feeling?”

 “Alive.” Feuilly replied, shrugging. “I must have slept for ten hours, but I’m still exhausted. I swear I didn’t get this tired when I was deployed and prancing around the desert every day.”

 “Just take it slow.” Bahorel murmured, helping him to a chair at the kitchen table.

 “Trust me, I am.” Feuilly laughed tiredly, taking a mouthful of coffee. “I don’t suppose you want to explain how you found me?”

 “Luck, mostly, and Grantaire’s pleasing phone manner.” Enjolras replied, joining them at the table while Grantaire continued to busy himself at the stovetop. “Some senior official at the _police nationale_ knew where you were, god knows how, and felt benevolent enough to grant us the address.”

 “Oh, I think I know how the police had my location.” Feuilly said grimly, fiddling with his coffee cup. Bahorel and Enjolras exchanged a look of surprise, and Grantaire hastened to sit down, bringing a tall plate of pancakes with him.

 “Well?” Grantaire asked, in a would-be casual manner, dishing up the food.

 Feuilly gave a short and utterly chilled grin. “Well, they’re the ones that took me, of course.”

 Bahorel froze, Grantaire stopped fiddling with the pancakes and Enjolras’ face, already pale, was totally blanched. “No. Surely not.”

 “I was walking to my studio on, I suppose it was Thursday morning,” Feuilly began, frowning to recall the details. “And suddenly I hear these heavy boots and I’m being bundled up into some sort of van.

 “I would have fought back, of course, but it caught me by surprise. By the time I knew it they’d take my cane and replaced it with handcuffs. It doesn’t matter how much hand-to-hand combat training you have, if you can’t see your opponents you’re always just going to be lashing out like a cornered dog.” he added bitterly.

“Did those fucking pigs hurt you?” Bahorel asked, quietly but with murderous undertones.

 “Not those ones, no. They didn’t need to. I was just about the easiest pick-up they’d ever had, I’d expect.” Feuilly answered, head bowed. “And even more so, because they didn’t even have to blindfold me, did they? I’ve got no idea where we drove, or even for how long. I guess it must be sort of near where you found me, but by the time I bumped into you I’d been wandering for a couple of minutes, so…”

 His voice was level, but his body gave him away – he was trembling slightly, not from nerves or discomfort, but in anger.

 “Feuilly, if you’re not ready to talk about this – “ Enjolras began, but he was immediately stared down.

 “I’ve heard your speeches too many times not to talk about this, Enjolras. Silence in situations of conflict or gravity consistently favors the oppressor, and not the oppressed. Isn’t that what you always say?”  
  
At any other time, Enjolras would have been ecstatic to have his speeches paraphrased and quoted back to him, however this was too solemn an occasion for that to occur to him.

 "What happened after that?” Bahorel asked in a small, reluctant voice.

 Feuilly took a deep breath. “Well, after that I was taken into the basement of some building or another. First they had me in some empty cell of a room. No furniture, no windows, nothing but concrete walls and a metal door. I banged on the door a whole lot, screaming bloody murder, but as you can imagine that didn’t do much.”

 “It didn’t matter, anyway, really.” he added with shocking nonchalance. “It was just an intimidation technique, and trust me, I’ve seen worse – back when I could see, of course. If their intimidation didn’t involved waterboarding then it was a hell of a lot better than anything I saw on deployment.”

 "Well, that’s reassuring.” Grantaire muttered sarcastically, and Feuilly gave a short, barking laugh.

 “Anyway, they got impatient after an hour or so, and I was moved to an interrogation room. Standard police issue, you’ve all been in trouble enough to know – table, chairs facing opposite, and me cuffed to mine.” he added pointlessly. “So in comes good cop and bad cop, all puffed up and arrogant as you’d expect. I told them that my rights had been breached, that I had been arbitrarily arrested, that I hadn’t been given the Reding statements – “  
  
“Nothing? They didn’t make the declaration when they took you?” Enjolras clarified, incensed – the Reding rights were a basic civil expectation, and the notion that they’d been casually ignored horrified him.

 “No, but it made sense soon enough. They said they didn’t care, except in slightly more profane terms, because I was being interviewed in relation to some domestic terrorism suspicions.”

 “You’re joking.” Grantaire said, laughing drily.

 “That’s what I thought, at the time.” Feuilly agreed. “They started talking about how I was some anti-government loose screw, using my military training against France. I pointed out that I wouldn’t be of very much use in making bombs, even if I wanted to, seeing as I couldn’t tell the colored wires apart. Don’t think they found that very funny. That’s how I got this one.”

He pointed to a bruising imprint of knuckles on his jaw. Bahorel brushed his fingers lightly over the dusty purple, eyes wide, sad. Enjolras had seen Bahorel himself with injuries much more severe – cuts and scars peppered his skin like stars across a clear sky – but Feuilly had never so much as glanced at a fight. When he began to date Bahorel, all of his brawling and bar fights had infuriated him, Enjolras recalled.

 It wasn’t that he abhorred violence; he wasn’t so naïve, or optimistic, or some combination of both. In certain circumstances, Enjolras knew that Feuilly acknowledged the need for force – after all, he’d used it himself in the past. But he preferred to polarize his life, favoring pacifism in France and resorting to violence only when necessary on deployment. It was a decision he had upheld since before Enjolras knew him, and he couldn’t see him breaking that personal pact now.

 “It’s okay.” Feuilly murmured, grabbing Bahorel’s hand and guiding it away from the bruise. “Dear, it’s alright, I promise. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

 Enjolras and Grantaire both felt like invaders, interlopers in this moment between the two of them. A moment later, however, Feuilly turned back towards the table.

 “I don’t understand,” Enjolras began slowly. “Why they thought you were involved in all this in the first place. Why you? It’s surely got to be some stupid mistake.”

 Feuilly’s mouth opened, then closed, and then opened again, as if he couldn’t quite decide what to say and how.

 “The two morons interviewing me asked me a lot of questions about my political involvements, groups I was associated with, and so on. They _seemed_ to think that the ABC Society was notably more sinister than it is.” Feuilly answered cautiously. “Or rather, that you were notably more sinister than you are.”  
  
“Me?” Enjolras said nervously. “Did they know my name?”  
  
“That’s the odd part.” Feuilly replied. “Their descriptions of you were very clear – your height, build, features, even some of your mannerisms. But they called you by some other name. It was so strange, because they clearly had some sort of tabs on you. But they screwed up only your name.”

 Grantaire glanced sideways at Enjolras pointedly. “Do you, uh, remember what they called him?”  
  
Feuilly frowned thoughtfully. “Praslin. Olivier de – something? – Praslin. I think. I don’t know, I’m sorry, by that point they’d been prodding me for a few hours, I don’t quite, I mean – “  
  
“It’s alright, don’t worry about it.” Bahorel said, rubbing Feuilly’s arm to calm him. Enjolras had gone as rigid as a board, but no one but Grantaire seemed to notice as Feuilly continued.

 “And after that, when they were done with the questions and the, y’know, shoving around and all of that, they kind of just dumped me back in the empty room. Not the best night’s sleep to be had on a concrete floor, nursing a beating, but I’ve had much worse. And then this morning they just… let me out. They obviously figured I’d been rattled enough and wasn’t of any further use, seeing as I wouldn’t tell them a damn thing. Dropped me on a street without my cane, and that’s that.” Feuilly shrugged again.

 Enjolras was staring blankly ahead, eyes unfocused. Grantaire grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to his feet.   
  
“Just a moment, you two? Sorry, I’ve just remembered there’s something we’ve got to organize. Hey, have some pancakes while we’re gone, yes?” he added as an afterthought.

 Grantaire steered Enjolras out into the hall, staring at him expectantly, but he seemed to be totally lost in his own head.

 “Enjolras? Enjolras, come back to me here.” Grantaire said urgently, shaking him lightly and waving his hand in front of his eyes. “Hey, hey! Are you with me?”

 Enjolras blinked fiercely, and his eyes came into focus on Grantaire’s face.

 “Yes, yes, I’m sorry. I’m with you.” he stammered. “I just don’t understand, how did they get that name? I never told Feuilly that name, I’ve been going by ‘Enjolras’ since the moment I met him, he could only have heard it from these national police morons.”  
  
“Babe, I don’t want you to panic on me here, but listen, okay?” Grantaire said in a hushed tone. “Do you remember, when we were waiting for Feuilly on that street corner, I told you about that weird remark the senior _nationale_ made on the phone?”

 "He said he didn’t want to be bought.” Enjolras replied in a long, thoughtful drawl. “Grantaire, what are you thinking? I don’t understand what you mean.”  
  
“I think your asshole father ordered this.” he stated bluntly.

 Enjolras’ face screwed up uncertainly.

 “Hear me out.” Grantaire interjected. “You go and see your father for the first time in years. You ruffle him up a bit, he’s pissed off by your continued existence, and he threatens to follow you and everyone you know. A few days later, one of your closest friends and associates is picked up off the streets, harassed for his involvement in a group _you run_ , and pointlessly questioned about you – all with reference to a name that virtually only we and your father know. Now, I don’t know about you, but that’s a little too much to be coincidence, don’t you think?”

 Enjolras ran his hands through his hair nervously, tugging violently at the curls.

 “You’re right. Of course, you’re right.” he muttered, pacing back and forth a little. “He’s had someone follow me since I left, come into contact with Feuilly that way, and then paid the national police to rough him up – but why? Feuilly said their questions were meaningless, and the alleged charges are obviously falsified.”

 “I don’t suppose he did it just to prove that he can?” Grantaire suggested. “I mean, he can’t control you any more, he can’t hurt or dominate you, because you don’t live at home. But he wants to seem big and threatening to fend you away from those two million euros. So, what does he do? He makes the consequences of screwing with him clear.”

 “By kidnapping, detaining and then brutalizing my friend, who also happens to be severely handicapped and virtually defenseless?” Enjolras hissed.

 “It’s crazy, I know, but so is he.” Grantaire replied defensively.

 Enjolras crossed his arms across his chest and huffed childishly. “So what do we do? We can’t just let him pull a stunt like this and go unpunished.”  
  
“He’s got the police in his pocket, we can hardly report him. They’d laugh us out of the station.” Grantaire remarked.

 “So we go ahead with the break-in plan, then. If the police can’t help us, we’ve got to take things into our own hands. Assuming you’re still prepared to, that is.” he added as an afterthought.

 “Of course.” Grantaire echoed mindlessly, nodding. “Now, shall we see to these two and then get home? I’d kill for a shower.”  
  
They returned to the kitchen. Bahorel and Feuilly had picked at the pancakes, evidently neither of them hungry but both too polite to turn down food that had been cooked for them. Feuilly still looked exhausted, and Bahorel, though relieved, wore the creased lines and heavy eyes of worry.

 “I’ll text Combeferre and make sure he gives you a quick examination when he comes to drop in the cane.” Enjolras said, punching away at his phone.

 “There’s really no need, Enjolras, I’m fine, and it’s just a few bruises – “  
  
“So far as you’re aware, but it doesn’t hurt to be cautious.” Grantaire chastised sensibly. “It’ll take all of five minutes for ‘Ferre to give you the all-clear.”

 “Thank you, both of you. We’ll set you free now, you can go get some proper rest.” Bahorel said, standing and looping his arm around Feuilly’s shoulders.  
  
“Just call if you need anything, okay? And text me with updates on how he’s doing.” Enjolras added quietly, so that only Bahorel could hear. He nodded.

 Enjolras and Grantaire walked home – the taxi was an extravagance they couldn’t afford twice in two days, and had only splurged on to get Feuilly home post-haste. The city bustled on, busy streets filled with busy people, all of them utterly oblivious to the chaos that had ensued in the lives of some of their own in the days before. Paris was the perfect façade of composure, its tall, grand buildings hiding the madness behind their walls and windows. It was impossible for even a native Parisian to know a fraction of the corruption, the crime, the commotion, which lurked in its wide boulevards and winding streets. A few days ago, Enjolras himself would never have believed that such madness as the state-sanctioned kidnapping and illegal interrogation of an ex-soldier would be possible. Now he wondered what else he was ignorant of, what other civilians were victims of unspeakable and unspoken crimes because of a few exchanged banknotes and deliberately blind eyes.

 The part that infuriated Enjolras most was that the culprits, the dirty cops who had taken and beaten and questioned Feuilly so unceremoniously, would never be brought to justice. Even if his father fell as planned, even if Enjolras could gain his inheritance and win over the newspapers and media outlets, all whilst avoiding arrest, there would be no way of knowing who to track down. Feuilly could offer nothing in the way of descriptions of his captors, no directions to the basements that had held him. In the extremely unlikely event that all else went well – and it was, Enjolras knew full well, an extremely unlikely event – Feuilly and Bahorel would never see the truth come out and justice have its day. It was bitter enough to make Enjolras’ fists clench in spite of himself.

 Grantaire and Enjolras took a shower together as soon as they arrived home at their apartment. The former man was ecstatic to wash off a day and a half’s grime and tiredness in the scalding water, the latter, hoping to rid himself of at least a little of his fury. Grantaire could feel Enjolras tension, like an elastic band stretched to breaking point. He leant in for a drenched kiss, running his hands over the tall blond’s back, his shoulders, all the way down to the V shape of his small, angular hips.

 “We’ll work it out. We’ve been through tough times before, and yeah, these are a little tougher, but so what? We’re going to get through it just fine.” Grantaire babbled softly above the rush of the water, a calming rush of sound as he held Enjolras in his arms. Grantaire was at least half a foot shorter than the other man, but his voice held a gentle authority not challenged by stature.

 “Yeah.” Enjolras choked half-heartedly.

 Grantaire planted small, light kisses along his collarbones, murmuring briefly between each one.

“We’ll work it out. We’ll work it out. We’ll work it out.”


End file.
